


Exhale the Dust

by flutterbutt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Forced Outing (past), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutterbutt/pseuds/flutterbutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a disgraced former pop star who needs help writing a single. (a <i>Music and Lyrics</i> AU)</p><p>  <i>A week later, the note from Breakfast Harry is still buried in Louis' kitchen drawer under forks and spoons and spatulas, all but forgotten. Louis is in bed (because it is only 11 o'clock, after all) when he gets another call from Herb. It's probably about opening for fucking Blue again. He'll probably say yes this time. He hates turning Herb down, especially since he knows that Herb most likely begged Blue's people to consider Louis in the first place.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhale the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This took months upon months to write, oh my god. It's un-betaed and un-Britpicked, so please let me know if you find a mistake. Thanks for reading! I'm [jammydodgerlou](http://jammydodgerlou.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr.

There is no way Louis Tomlinson is going to open for the Blue reunion. He will never stoop that low.

"Lou, it's not like it's a bad thing—“

"It's _Blue_ ," Louis hisses into the phone. "It is a bad thing." 

Herb, his manager, sighs. They've had this conversation a few dozen times. "You need the money, Louis."

"Not this way. I'm not some kind of prostitute!"

"This is nothing like prostitution."

"It's exactly like prostitution.” Louis doesn't think it is, either, but it's the principle of the thing that counts. "I'll get money some other way. Maybe I'll get a job. Or write a book."

"You've tried writing a book.”

"I'll try again," Louis says firmly. "It'll be fun."

"Alright. Fine, Lou." Herb sighs again. “By the by, have you finished reading _The Andrew_ _Dylan Story_?”

“No,” Louis answers, picking at his nails. “Haven’t got past the first chapter.”

“Can you hurry? Carol says she needs her copy back to do a reread.”

“I’ll bring it when I come to tea next week. It’s rubbish, anyway.”

Herb hums. “That poor kid, eh? Well, I’ll see you then.”

"Alright, I'd better go. It's time for my afternoon stroll."

"Bye, Louis."

"Love you, Herbie."

Louis ends the call and tosses his phone back onto his bedside table. He takes a long stretch before finally sitting up. His muscles are a little sore from having slept so long, and he very much needs to shower before he disgusts himself. New day, same shit.

He pads to the toilet, pausing to raise his middle finger to the poster of his band from 2003. It's torn in half, so that part of Louis’ face and side is gone, along with one of his three band mates.

 That one doesn't even deserve the finger.

Louis takes a nice long shower, washes his hair twice, and has a slow, lethargic wank. By the time he gets out, he doesn't really feel like taking his afternoon stroll after all. Instead, he goes down the block to the sandwich shop for something to bring back to eat while watching badly scripted reality TV. At ten, he picks off the couch and gets changed to go out. There's a club he's never been to 30 minutes away. After all, Herb’s been telling him that it’s time for a change.

Louis wears his braces on the off-chance that one of the boys at this new club will recognize him, and maybe blow him in the loo if he still remembers how one of Touch's song goes. It's worked for Louis in the past. He's heard many drunken renditions of "What Makes You Beautiful" in the last ten years.

There's a long queue out of the club's door once he arrives. He'd try to use his fame to jump ahead, but last time, the bouncer hadn't recognized him. That had been way too humiliating to risk again.

So he waits, impatient, idly scoping out the boys around him. Average, as far as club clientele goes. There doesn't appear to be a theme tonight, which Louis supposes is good. He hates theme nights.

A little ways ahead of Louis, there’s a pretty blond boy talking to another boy with curly hair. Blondie throws back his head and laughs at something Curly says, and gosh, but his smile is gorgeous.

Curly turns after a moment, scanning the crowd behind him. Louis raises his eyebrow, impressed. Curly has a very nice face, with pink, full lips and big big eyes. He's got tattoos peeking out of his low-cut shirt, dark against his pale skin and the beautiful line of his collarbones.

A definite nine out of ten, Louis thinks idly.

Curly and Curly's friend disappear when they're ushered into the club, and then Louis is walking in, too. He goes to the bar to quickly down a couple of shots, and then he's good.

It's a better club than probably any of the ones near Louis' neighborhood, he decides. The main floor isn't uncomfortably packed, and the DJ is playing a solid remix of a not-yet-overplayed pop track. Unpretentious. Louis likes it.

Louis dances with the first boy that beckons him, then moves on to the next one as soon as he feels a tap on his waist. He likes dancing with boys, likes the way the music thuds in his chest like it's his own heartbeat, likes the heat of another body pressed up behind him, or in front of him. He loves how these boys touch him, loves how it makes him feel. He always goes into a zone when he dances, regardless of how much he's had to drink or how high he is. Dancing is a drug, but Louis hates thinking about it that way because that was the title of Touch's fourth album and it isn't something he likes to remember.

He's dancing with a particularly well-muscled boy with gleaming skin (but not very good moves, really) when he spots Curly again. Curly is, from what he can see, an even worse dancer than the boy currently wrapped around Louis. It doesn't matter, though. Louis lifts the boy's hands from his waist, drops an apologetic kiss on his knuckles, and shoulders his way over to Curly.

Curly is dancing with the blond boy he was with before, but turns to Louis immediately when his hands close around his hips. The blond boy nods his head up, indicating to Curly that he's going upstairs. Then Curly is all Louis'.

He truly is not a very good dancer. Louis tries to make it easy for him, spins around and seals his back to Curly's front so that all Curly has to do is follow the way Louis' hips move.

"Hi there," Curly rumbles into his ear over the music. "You look familiar."

Louis shoots him a wink over his shoulder. He'll let him figure it out.

The song switches to Swedish House Mafia, which Louis loathes, but will dance to anyways. Curly's arms snake around Louis’ waist, and Louis shivers from how nice and thick his arms are. He presses his lips to Louis' neck, and says, "You're that one from Touch. The fit one."

"The one and only," Louis confirms with a smirk. "Name's Louis."

"Right, Louis Tomlinson." The boy grins against Louis’ skin, obviously pleased with himself, and Louis shivers again. His neck has always been a weak spot. "'M Harry."

Louis doesn't care, but he will attempt to remember it for the rest of the night. It's more polite that way, really. "How long were you planning on staying here tonight, Curly Harry?"

Harry gives a little shrug. "I figure I've danced enough."

"Good. Let's go."

They push their way through the crowd, Harry sending a text to his friend as Louis pulls him along.

As soon as they get out into the night air, Louis pushes Harry against the nearest building and kisses him hard and thorough. "My flat is a whole 30 minutes away," he breathes in Harry's mouth. "Can we go to yours?"

"Mine's further away," Harry murmurs, bending to kiss Louis again. "I can wait."

"Alright," Louis says, opening the passenger side of his car for Harry before climbing in himself. "Mine it is, then."

"I've never gotten off with a pop star before," Harry says, smug smile on his face.

"Disgraced former pop star," Louis corrects, but grins so Harry knows he's not being depressive.

The ride to Louis’ is quiet. The radio is on, but soft, and Harry seems content to sit without making small talk. Very good.

"Did you know," Louis says finally, because he may hate small talk but he also has the need to fill up all and any silences, "that you are very pretty, Curly Harry?"

Harry makes a considering noise. "I've been told. Once or twice, y’know. But it is nice to hear."

Louis nods. "Very pretty. I'll say it again, in that case."

"You probably don't need me to tell you that you are also very pretty."

"I've been told once or twice," Louis answers with a grin. "Still nice to hear."

"Unearthly pretty, really. My sister had a poster of Touch in her room when we were growing up. Reckon I wanked over you a few times," Harry says easily. Louis likes him, he decides.

"It's always the sister," Louis says.

"Fine. The poster was in my room." Harry laughs. "May as well own up to it."

"Honesty is a virtue," Louis murmurs, finally pulling into his parking space.

Harry stretches as he gets out of the car. "This is actually going to fulfill a life-long dream of mine," he says casually. "No pressure or anything."

Louis lets out a startlingly loud laugh. "That’s not something I usually get. Interesting.”

"Don't know whether to be insulted or complimented. Thanks either way, I guess."

"You're welcome," Louis breathes, ushering Harry into his living room. He pushes Harry up against the door, shutting it, eager to get back to kissing.

Harry has a sinful tongue. Louis had thought his lips had looked divine, and they are, but his tongue is something else—so quick, light and soft at first, but pushing harder and more demanding the longer they kiss. It strokes along the contours of the inside of Louis' mouth, lightly traces over his lips. Harry pulls back to press open-mouthed kisses over Louis' neck, and his tongue is tantalizing.

"You have a good mouth," Louis tells him, voice rough already.

"You haven't seen anything yet," Harry whispers to him hotly, lips pressed to the shell of his ear, before latching on to the skin just behind it.

"Jesus," Louis groans. He tugs at Harry's hands until he rises up away from the wall, and tows him down the hall to his bedroom.

"Welcome to my abode," he says as he seals their lips together again, easing Harry down onto the bed.

"'S nice,” Harry murmurs.

"You don't even know what color the walls are," Louis says, pulling at Harry's shirt until he moves to lift it off. Louis tugs off his own shirt, and his trousers and shoes too.

"Know it must be nice," Harry says with a teasing smile. He pushes at Louis' shoulder to get him to lie back, then flicks his pants down his legs and off entirely. After giving Louis' dick a few quick pumps to get it completely hard, he bends his head down and gets right to giving Louis, apparently, the best blowjob he's had in years.

"Holy shit," Louis groans, throwing his head back. "You weren't fucking kidding."

"Never do," Harry says, pulling off. He winds his perfect, perfect tongue over the head of Louis' dick and down the underside before sinking his lips down again. Louis is going to die, or come, very shortly.

"Hey," he tells Harry, poking his shoulder. "I want to—oh, fuck—I want to ride you, so if you could kindly not finish me off in under a minute…"

Harry slurps back off with a pop. "Are you saying you won't be able to get it back up if I make you come right now?" he asks innocently. "I bet you could."

"You're all of, what? Eighteen years old? What do you know?" Louis grits out.

"I'm 23," Harry says simply, and then slides his lips back onto Louis' dick until his nose meets his fist.

"This is unfair," Louis whines, trying not to arch his hips right up into Harry's mouth. "You should respect and revere your elders."

Harry doesn't listen. Louis isn't surprised, even though he doesn't know Harry. It takes only a handful of minutes of Harry's long, tortuous sucks to get Louis hurtling over the edge.

As he's lying back, trying to catch his breath, Harry is already rummaging through his bedside table.

"The lube is in the second drawer, you demon boy," Louis gets out. "Along with the condoms."

"Cheers," Harry says, pulling them out. He sits back up, pulls off the rest of his clothes before settling back down.

"You have a nice cock," Louis says sluggishly. It's good to be polite.

"Glad to hear it," Harry says. "Can I start fingering you now, or do you need a moment?"

Louis takes a deep breath, then another. “A moment,” he says.

“Alright.”

Harry slithers up Louis’ body and kisses up his bicep, then over his shoulder, to Louis’ collarbones. His nose nudging Louis’ neck is what starts to make him hard moments later. It’s overstimulating, really.

"You can try now, though I won't guarantee anything," Louis breathes, widening his legs and bringing up his knees.

Harry presses one last pick to the center of Louis’ throat before sitting up. After lubing his fingers generously, he presses the tip of his index against Louis’ rim, rubs in little circles. He eases his finger in slowly, but not hesitantly. Good.

Harry's fingers are amazing, so long and thick. Soon he's twisting two fingers in and out of Louis, searching and searching until—“Yes," Louis hisses.

"There?" Harry says with a smirk, deliberately dragging his fingertip right over Louis' prostate. "Is that where it is?"

"Shut up," Louis grumbles, bucking his hips into Harry’s hands. "You're not cute."

"I'm hurt." He looks pretty much the opposite of hurt (and the opposite of not-cute) with his smile and his bright eyes and his fucking dimple, for god's sake.

"More," Louis orders.

Harry tucks a third finger in with the other two, flexing and spreading them until Louis tells him to stop. He's mostly hard again.

"Told you," Harry says, pressing a slow kiss under the crown of Louis' dick. "Where there's a will, there's a way." He licks a wide stripe over the underside of Louis' dick, then another, as if he's actually considering blowing him again, and Louis refuses. He's done with this.

"On your back," he demands, pushing at Harry's shoulder and arranging him how he likes. He rolls a condom over Harry's dick and slicks him with lube, watching the way the slightest touch of his hand makes Harry arch up. "You ready?"

"Of course," Harry says, trying to pull Louis closer to him. Louis smacks his hands away, before slinging one of his legs over Harry's middle so he's straddling his stomach. "Ooh, bossy."

Louis bares his teeth. "I remember saying something about respecting your elders."

"Yes sir," Harry murmurs, and fuck if it doesn't shoot straight to Louis' dick. Alright, then.

Louis scoots back until he's hovering right over Harry's dick and slowly eases himself down until his bum is resting against Harry's angular hips. He takes a moment to get himself comfortable, just rocking his hips back and forth, before he lifts himself up and back down abruptly.

"Shit," Harry groans.

Louis puts his hands on Harry's chest (notices how pleasantly toned it is) and sets up a rhythm that he likes, unforgiving and quick. Harry's dick feels so good in him, long and obscenely thick. Louis isn't a size queen, but. It’s a good dick.

He can tell that Harry is starting to get close, having not come for quite a while yet. He should probably get on that level. "Do us a favor and touch me," he pants out, rocking faster.

Harry wraps his hand around Louis’ dick and keeps it still, squeezing rhythmically and letting Louis thrust in and out as he rises and falls over Harry's lap. "You feel so good," Harry murmurs.

Louis slides down until his elbows are resting on Harry's chest and his face is hovering above Harry's. Harry’s got his head tilted away, so Louis rests his forehead against his temple instead, breathing hard against his skin.

Harry puts his hands around Louis' back and flips him over so he can thrust down into him. Louis' dick is sliding against the hard muscles of Harry's abs, and amazingly, he feels himself starting to get close.

He bites down on Harry's shoulder and that seems to do it. Harry comes with a huffed moan, fucking Louis through it. He wraps his hand back around Louis' dick, jerking him tight and perfect. It doesn't take long until Louis is coming too, on his own stomach and Harry's.

Louis closes his eyes as he comes down. His hands are trembling a little, he notices, and balls them into fists.

"Do you mind if I stay here for the night?" Harry asks after a long moment. "I don't fancy trying to get a cab at this hour."

"Sure," Louis replies. Normally he likes his boys to leave so he can have his nice, soft bed all to himself, but it is quite late. Least he can do after Harry gave him two orgasms. "Feel free to use the shower in the morning."

"Are you saying I'm stinky?"

"Yes," Louis says, cracking open an eye to flash Harry a smile.

"You are so mean, for a pop star."

"Disgraced former pop star," Louis reminds him, crawling underneath the covers. "Disgraced, sleepy former pop star."

"Whatever."

"'Night," Louis slurs, a second before drifting off. Harry shifts beside him, getting up to toss out the condom, then settles down beside Louis again.

\--

Louis wakes up far too early. He opens one bleary eye to look at the clock on his bedside table, and waits for the red blurs to coalesce into numbers. It's 6:52. Or 5:28. Either way, too early. He hears a clatter from the toilet, and promptly rolls over back onto his stomach.

Louis wakes up again at nine, and smells something delicious. He'd normally like to sleep in longer, but his stomach is telling him to go investigate.

There's a covered plate in his kitchen. He lifts the foil off it to find bacon, eggs, and some kind of toast that smells divine. Louis blinks.

There's a little note next to it:

_Morning, Louis!!! I hope you don't mind, I was hungry so I used some of your stuff and made breakfast. You’re out of bread now, by the way, sorry about that. I had a great night with you. I know you probably get lots of boys' numbers and stuff, and I'll probably never see you again, but on the off chance..._

There's a string of numbers, and then,

_Take care!_

_Harry xx_

Louis blinks again, looking between the plate and the letter. He’s charmed. Well, his stomach is definitely charmed, as it gives a loud gurgle of approval as Louis takes his first bite. It's delicious.

Harry's right. Louis will probably never call him. Still, he folds up the note carefully and sticks it into the drawer with all his utensils, thinks _maybe_. Harry is sweet, he can definitely cook, and that _mouth_. Maybe.

Courtesy dictates that Louis should send at least a thank-you text for the breakfast, especially since he didn’t wake up before Harry left. Louis shrugs. Maybe later.

\--

A week later, the note from Breakfast Harry is still buried in Louis' kitchen drawer under forks and spoons and spatulas, all but forgotten. Louis is in bed (because it is only 11 o'clock, after all) when he gets another call from Herb.

He sighs as he picks it up. It's probably about fucking Blue again. He'll probably say yes this time. He hates turning Herb down, especially since he knows that Herb probably begged Blue's people to consider Louis in the first place.

"Hello, Herb."

"Lou, I have some great news."

Louis sits up. That's not something Herbie has said for years now, not since there was talk of a Touch reunion concert series. Herb is, for all his faults, realistic. "What is it?"

"You know that new band, Union J? With that song, ‘Carry You?’”

"The uplifting, yodelly one, yes, it's all the radio ever plays."

Union J had shot to the top of the charts earlier that year. Some kind of boy band renaissance, or something, according to the papers. They’ve already skipped the whole fiery, band-splitting outing scandal, as well. One of them, Jaymi something, is the darling of the tabloids, along with his very male fiancé. Louis isn’t bitter. Mostly, he tries not to think about it too much.

"Well," Herb says breathlessly. "They’re a big fan of you, and they’re looking for someone to be featured in a song for their next album—“

"Yes," Louis says immediately.

"Wait, I haven't gotten to the best part." Louis can hear Herb's grin. "So, of course it's not a sure thing, because the band is considering three other people or something, but you're their favorite. Of course. But the best part is that this song—they want you to write it. They want it to be a Louis Tomlinson original."

Louis deflates. "Herbie—“

"Now, I know you're hesitant, but you know it shouldn't actually be too hard. I can get a songwriter to work with you if you're nervous, I have a whole list of them—“

"Herbie, no," Louis sighs. "You know I can't write songs. I tried that. And that was back when I had a life and things to write about, and now," Louis sighs again. "You know I'm not a songwriter."

Herb is quiet for a long moment. "That's it?" he says finally, flat.

"I don't know what you want me to say. We both saw what happened last time."

"So you're telling me that you're not even going to try.”

"No, Herb, no." Louis covers his face with his palm. This is something he tries hard not to think about, how he once got an opportunity to try songwriting out, for real, and he fucking blew it. "It's just, you know. I know what my strengths are, and I know my weaknesses. I can't change my spots."

"That sounds a hell of a lot like quitting, Lou."

"It's not—Herb. You know I wouldn't quit."

Herb sighs, loud and gusty through the phone. "Then can you at least give it a shot? Let me send over one of my guys. It'll be fine."

Louis stares at the floor for a long moment, thinking. "Okay," he says, voice small. "But... please don't send a songwriter. If I do this, I don't want—I don't want that."

"Alright," Herb says. "Just know that it's an option, if you want it."

"Yeah," Louis says. He knows he won't. "Is there a deadline?"

"Friday, by 7 o'clock. They’re leaving for Germany right at 7, and we need a physical copy in their hands before that flight takes off."

"Got it," Louis says. Today is Saturday. Six whole days, for one measly song. Plenty of time for him to poke around, try to get something halfway respectable written, before calling Herb and telling him that there's no way.

"I don't want you to give up on this," Herb warns, as if reading Louis' thoughts. He probably can, by this point.

"Do you need me to give you hourly updates on my progress?" Louis asks dryly.

"How about daily updates?"

"I was kidding."

"I'm not," Herb says, firm. "You know it isn't that I don't trust you."

"You just don't trust that I mean when it when I say I'm going to try."

"No, Lou. I don't trust that you believe in yourself as much as you should."

Louis scoffs. "You sound like a Disney film."

"I mean it."

"I know you do."

"I'll call you this time tomorrow if you don't let me know how you're doing before then."

Louis falls back onto his mattress. "Alright, Herb. I'll get right to it."

"Thank you, Lou."

"Love you, Herbie-Herb."

Louis does not get right to it. Instead, he lies back and dozes for another hour, before he realizes that he is actually too hungry to relax. Then he watches the news for a few hours without really processing what he's hearing.

It's only when he gets a text from Herb several hours later that he thinks about the song again. It says, _Forgot to tell you earlier but the chorus has to include the line, “It’s been so long, my heart’s gone dusty.”_

Louis scoffs, but dutifully digs out an old, hardly-used marble composition book and scrawls it out.

\--

Nothing rhymes with “dusty.”

That’s not true. Lusty rhymes with dusty. As does rusty, trusty, crusty, and busty. None of these are words that Louis thinks he can seriously use in this song without wanting to hurt himself.

He stares up at his ceiling, clicking his pen over and over. He’s already written out the line Herb gave him about twenty times on his paper. He’s also drawn a wonky-looking elephant. That’s all the progress he’s made since yesterday.

Maybe he should start with the verses instead, and come back to the chorus when “crusty” begins to seem like a viable option.

Louis turns to a new, blank page, and stares at it. Then he checks the time. It’s been an hour of doing this, so surely he’s entitled to a break.

He goes for a walk to his favorite park with a newspaper under his arm, as if he's 50 years old. He sits on a bench under a tree, open the paper and stare at the words until they start to mean things. He reads article after article, and it's all very remote. Still, he likes feeling informed, whatever that means. Even if it doesn't really affect him, what happens in other countries or in politics. It's been years since he's seen his own name in the paper, and it makes him feel normal. Like he has a life that he doesn't, a life where not everything revolves around what he did ten years ago.

By the time he gets to the back page, it's quite chilly and late. His ankles are cold, and the backs of his thighs are clammy where the bench was wet under them. He leaves the paper wedged between two slats and stands up, stretching his limbs. His mind is pleasantly empty, with nary a new idea for his song.

Louis sighs, pushes his fringe back, and sets off for home.

He doesn't touch the song at all that night, or the next day. His phone is under his bed when Herb calls and he pretends to himself that it was an accident. He goes to the park again, reads the new day’s paper. Another day, in, out.

He wakes up on the third day since being assigned the song to his phone blinking angry red at him. Another missed call and two text messages from Herb.

Louis ignores them and takes a shower. He needs to be clean before he allows himself to face Herb's judgment. No, that's not the problem. Herbie has never judged. He'll only be disappointed, and that's most certainly worse.

Louis finally checks the texts once he's dressed and rubbing a towel through his hair. _Please do this?_ then, _It would be so good for you._

Louis feels a twist in his heart. Nobody is able to make him feel guilty the way Herb does.

So Louis makes himself breakfast. It's 1 pm by that time, but it's his first meal of the day, so it's breakfast. Then he forces himself out of the flat to his favorite café with his composition book tucked under his arm and a pen stuck in the spine.

He orders a latte in the largest size available and sits in a big, cozy chair in the back corner. He's going to be there a long time today, because dammit, he's going to get this whole song written. Today. Right now. He's just going to bang it out and be done with it.

Louis turns to the page he doodled on before, stares at it, then takes out his phone to play a few rounds of solitaire. Then he draws another elephant, and some elephant babies. Elephant cubs? It's a whole elephant family now.

Once he's covered the page with little elephants, Louis tears it out of the notebook and screws it up tight, tucking it into his jacket pocket.

_It's been so long, my heart's gone dusty._

"It's been so long, my heart's gone dusty," Louis whispers to himself, closing his eyes. "It's been so long, my heart's gone dusty."

Louis writes his rhyming options in the margin of the new page. The next line has to rhyme, he’s sure of it, because you just can't have a line like that in the chorus of a pop song without making it rhyme. It needs to be quirky. Jaunty, even. It needs a cute little rhyme. So his options are crusty, lusty, and busty. And something else, probably.

 _I'm terribly old and crusty_ , he sings mentally _, it's been so long, my heart's gone dusty_.

He shakes his head vehemently at himself.

Rusty was another option. Louis drums his pen against the top of the page, a hard staccato.

"It's been so long, my heart's gone dusty," he murmurs slowly, "the key you used has gotten rusty." That's better. It's not good enough.

"It's been so long, my heart's gone dusty," he tries again, unconsciously a little louder. “I’m trying hard, but my cogs are rusty. No.”

“It’s been so long, my heart’s gone dusty,” he says again. What a stupid line, really. He hangs his head, lets it drop down onto the table in front of him. While he’s there, he bangs his forehead against the wood, his empty cup rattling around in its saucer. He lets out a long breath, staring straight at the wood grain right in front of his eyeballs. He definitely, absolutely cannot do this. He can’t.

Suddenly, there’s a man singing just behind Louis’ head. “Please forgive me if I’m rusty,” rumbles the deep, pleasant voice. “It’s been so long, my heart’s gone dusty.”

Louis freezes.

It’s good. It’s the line he’s been trying to write.

Has he been visited by a lyric-writing guardian angel?

Louis lifts his head and turns around. That face is, wow, it’s as heavenly as he expected, and familiar too. Curly hair, green eyes, cute dimples—oh. “Breakfast Harry,” Louis breathes.

Breakfast Harry throws back his head and laughs. “You remember me!” he crows. There’s a guitar case sitting in the chair opposite him at the little table.

“I meant to call,” Louis blurts, though he didn’t, really. It’s half-untrue, at any rate.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, dimples still firmly indented on either side of his smile. “I only left my number, you know, just in case. I didn’t think I’d see you ever again, actually, so this is a pleasant surprise.”

Louis blinks at him.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, unperturbed. “Well, I mean, you’re writing, obviously. But don’t you have, like. Musician places? Where you can do that kind of thing?”

“Musician places,” Louis repeats slowly. “Nope, fresh out of those.”

Harry laughs again, big and open. “I guess I just don’t expect to see celebrities at the café up the street from my flat, you know? ‘S weird.”

“I’m not a celebrity,” Louis says tonelessly. “But to answer your question, yes, I am here writing a song. It’s not going well, as you can see.”

“You had one good line, at least.”

Louis doesn’t mention that he didn’t come up with the line, or that actually, he thinks it’s shit. “Thanks for your addition to it, by the way. I’d use it if I could.”

“Why can’t you?”

“It’s your line,” Louis says.

Harry shrugs. “It’s just a line. Besides, it’s your song,” he returns, smiling. “So it’s all yours. If you want it, that is.”

Louis very much does that line. It’s better than anything he’s been able to come up with thus far, and it’s been three lousy days. “Thank you.” He’s not going to use it, though. It’s bad enough that the dusty heart line isn’t his; he can hardly claim to have written a song where half of the chorus isn’t his.

Harry bites his lip. “I know that you’re really busy right now,” Louis scoffs, but Harry barrels on, “And I already gave you my number, but. Do you want to go get something to eat with me?”

Louis stares down at his composition book, then up at Harry. It’s tempting. But he’s supposed to get this song written. Today, right now. So he can tell Herb about it.

Well, it’s not like it was actually going to happen.

“Sure,” Louis says, gratefully closing up his notebook. “What did you have in mind?”

Harry picks up his guitar case and finishes off his tea. "Whatever you like. But there's this nice place down the street with sandwiches and things, if you want."

Louis shrugs, so they walk down the street to the little shop. He’s very surprised to see Harry's friend Blondie behind the counter.

"Good to see you, Hazza, it's been so long," Blondie jokes with a big grin. His signature grin, it seems to be.

"At least since this morning," Harry answers with an eye roll. "Louis, this is my roommate-in-law, Niall. He's a shit."

"I don't like that kind of language coming from you," Niall says, swatting Harry's hand with the rag he was using to clean the counter.

“In-law?” Louis asks.

“My roommate is dating his,” Harry explains.

"Me and Louis met already, haven't we?" Niall asks.

"At the club, yeah," Louis says.

Niall gives Harry a significant look that Louis can't interpret, and Harry goes a little red in his cheeks. But Niall doesn't say anything more, just takes their orders.

As he’s handing Louis his sandwich, Niall shoots Harry a glance and then says. “Hey, mate, could you do me a favor and convince this boy to do some _serious_ gigs? I mean, since you’ve been in music and stuff and Harry would probably do anything you say.”

“Erm?” Louis looks between Niall and Harry, who slaps a hand to face.

“He’s good,” Niall says, nodding at Harry. “He doesn’t even _look_ for bigger gigs. He could be a star, if he tried.”

Harry groans. “You’re worse than my mum, Jesus Christ. Please shut up.”

Niall raises his eyebrows at Louis and goes back to cleaning the counter. Louis and Harry sit down at a table near the window.

“Sorry about him,” Harry says, nodding towards Niall. “He gets these ideas in his head.”

“You do gigs?” Louis asks, unwrapping his sandwich.

“Here and there, when I can get them. I mostly busk.” Harry shrugs sheepishly. “It helps pay the bills.”

"Let me guess, you’re the kind of musician that plays that kind of jangly indie stuff?” Louis teases. “Songs about flying toasters with metaphors about vegetables?"

"Something like that," Harry replies, eyes twinkling. "Lots of puns. You know."

Louis nods. "I listen to weird hipster shit like that when I can't sleep. Seems to do the trick."

Harry bites back a smile. "You're really different from what I would have expected. You're like, a real person."

"Did you expect me to be a robot? Or a puppet, like the Backstreet Boys in that one video?"

"You're thinking of ‘Nsync," Harry tells him. "The video was for ‘Bye Bye Bye.’"

"You're not allowed to correct my boy band knowledge," Louis says, pointing a threatening finger at him. "How _dare_ you."

"My sister Gemma had an intense boy band phase," Harry says easily. "I always get every pop music question in pub quizzes."

Louis snorts. "I think we already established that it wasn't your sister, young Harold."

"M'name's not Harold," Harry says through a bite of sandwich. "It says Harry on my birth certificate and everything."

"Whatever, Harold," Louis sighs, exasperated.

"By the way," Harry says, furrowing his brow. "What's the song for?"

 Louis raises an eyebrow. "Song?"

"The song you're writing. Are you coming out with a new album? Or am I, like, not supposed to know about that?" Harry says with a grin. "You can tell me. I won't blab."

"I doubt that," Louis says. "You seem like a blabber."

Harry pouts. "I'm not. I'll be good."

Louis' breath hitches a little at the images that spawns in his head, but he plays it off with a cough. "I don't believe that for a moment," he says daintily. "But it doesn't matter anyways, as I'm not coming out with new material. Somebody asked me to write them a song, and, well." _I'm failing at it_ , he concludes mentally.

Harry grins. “So, you’re telling me that I’ll be hearing a song written by you on the radio sometime soon? Brilliant.”

“Probably not,” Louis says with a little laugh. “They asked me to do it, but they asked a few other people too, and I’m probably not going to end up writing it at all. It’s not a big thing or anything.”

"Oh.” Harry frowns down at his sandwich, but doesn’t say anything more than that.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Harry replies, then sticks his tongue out and takes an inhumanly large bite of his sandwich. Louis stares, mildly horrified, for a moment before remembering the train of the conversation.

“What do you mean by ‘oh,’ Harold?”

Harry chews before replying, and then chews some more, until Louis’ pretty sure he’s just chewing on air. Finally he answers, “Well, I mean. Like, basically. If I was in that position, and there were people writing songs for me, I don’t think there are many people I’d prefer over you.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “There’s really no need to flatter me. Do you know how many pairs of knickers I’ve had thrown at me in my lifetime?”

“I’m not saying it to flatter you—“

“Seriously, I could carpet the floors of a mansion with them. Connor did that, at one point.”

Harry furrows his brows. “Really?”

Louis nods. “Every room was a different color. It was a nightmare to walk on.”

“That’s not the point, though,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I’m really not trying to flatter. I don’t know why any artist would turn down one of your songs, considering everything.”

“I may be able to _sing_ ,” Louis says with another eye roll, “and once upon a time I could dance perfectly in step with three other morons, but I’ve never been a good songwriter.”

“You had that whole album you wrote,” Harry protests. “I heard about that when it came out.”

Louis spares a thought to wonder just how extensively Harry actually followed Touch, but dismisses it. Everyone heard about how bad his album was. “You didn’t actually listen to it, did you?”

Harry scratches his head. “Well, no. But I bet it was brilliant.”

Louis lets out a long, tired sigh. There’s a lot of things he could say in response to that, in response to Harry’s big, earnest face and shining eyes. “I’m not a songwriter,” he says finally.

“Says who?”

“ _Rolling Stone_ , _NME_ , _the New York Times_ , to name a few,” Louis says flatly. “Look, this isn’t, like, something I enjoy talking about. I don’t write songs. Can we move on?”

Harry folds his lips into his mouth, looking down at the table. “Can I just say one last thing?”

Louis covers his face with one hand. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I don’t know who you’re writing for, obviously,” Harry says slowly, “and I don’t know the whole situation. But. I know that they had to have picked you for a reason.” There’s a beat of silence. “That’s all.”

“Okay,” Louis says quietly. “Moving on.”

“Moving on,” Harry agrees.

Louis opens his mouth to say something and finds that he doesn’t quite know what he should say. He closes his mouth and meets Harry’s eyes, and Harry looks equally as apprehensive. It suddenly hits Louis how ridiculous this is, how _serious_ he’s being, and god, this conversation may as well be from a bad teen coming-of-age film. Suddenly they both burst into laughter at the same time.

"I’m not usually that melodramatic," Louis says once they calm down. "Sorry about all of that."

Harry waves it off. "It’s alright. I was pretty over the top, myself."

"Yeah." Louis grins, and feels his face stretch around it in a kind of unfamiliar way. He's enjoying being around a person that isn't Herb or Aiden, he realizes. This is nice.

When he looks down, it's to find that he's finished his sandwich and has no reason, really, to keep sitting here with Harry. That won't do.

"Hey, do you wanna..." he trails off. “Erm, go for a walk or something?" He can't think of anything better than go for a walk, and that's very much pathetic.

Harry bites his lip. "I actually kind of need to go work."

Louis nods a little. "Do you mean busking, or do you have an actual job as well?"

Harry laughs. "Haven’t got an actual job at the moment, to be honest. I meant busking. I'm a little low on cash, so."

"Right," Louis says, with a quick nod. "I guess I'll let you go off to that, then."

"Unless..." Harry tilts his head. "Do you want to come with me? I mean. It's not that exciting. I just go sit on a bench and play acoustic covers and shit, but. If you want to?"

Louis finds himself nodding without consciously deciding to. "Yeah, maybe for a bit. Might be nice."

"Okay," Harry says, with a little smile. "I'm just going to that little park, a few streets over from here?"

Louis' park, the one he usually goes to clear his head. "Yeah, I know of it. Let's go."

It turns out that Harry's favorite place to busk is just about right where Louis had gone the other day to read.

"It's weird that I've never seen you around here before," Louis says, scratching his head. "You go to the same café I go to, the same park... It's not like London is a small place, or anything."

"Yeah." Harry frowns. "I would definitely have known if I'd ever seen you before. I've lived here for four months."

"I’ve been here that whole time."

"We must have been just missing each other, all this time." Harry shrugs, smiling with dimples. “Weird.”

"Weird," Louis agrees, and feels a little shiver go through his body.

Harry takes out his guitar, begins tuning it.

"Are you even allowed to busk here?" Louis asks. "Feel like they don't let you do that in parks anymore." 

Harry shrugs. "If I'm lucky, any policeman who stops to listen decides it's not worth it to make me leave."

Louis can see that. Harry is so, so charming. He probably wouldn't be able to kick him out of the park, if he was a policeman. Then again, Louis would definitely make a terrible policeman. He doesn't give enough of a fuck about things like making sure no one is busking in the park.

"Are you any good?" Louis asks, suddenly impish.

"Good enough, I guess," Harry says with another dimply grin. "People seem to like me. You'll have to tell me, though."

He starts strumming, and after a little while, Louis recognizes it as the beginning of a Snow Patrol song. Then he rolls his eyes because, yeah, he should have seen that coming.

Harry starts singing, though, and Louis stops. He's good. Louis could kind of tell from that little bit that Harry sang to him in the coffee shop, but he hadn't been expecting this. His voice is so rich and deep, and just on the right side of too husky. His voice really wasn’t made for Snow Patrol, but Jesus, the song sounds so good with his lovely voice weaving in and out of it.

It doesn't take long for passersby to start dropping change in his open guitar case. Harry is perfect for this, with his startling, big voice, and the image he makes. Toned forearms coming out of his rolled up sleeves, long white fingers sliding up and down the frets, with his giant, spindly body curled all around his guitar like he's cuddling it. His face, too. He's got a good face normally, all big features and curving lines and fluffy hair, but when he's singing, it's something else altogether. It's all the ways Louis tried to make his face look back when he started singing, but for him, it just made him look constipated. Harry seems to be doing it naturally, and it works beautifully for him. As if he actually, genuinely feels this song, despite it being Snow Patrol and the fact that's he's probably played it a bajillion times before today.

Louis snorts, softly. From what he knows about Harry, he probably actually does _feel_ it. He's that kind of person.

Snow Patrol fades seamlessly into another song Louis can't place, and then Two Door Cinema Club after that, and then another song Louis can't place. He wonders if the unfamiliar ones are songs that Harry wrote himself.

Harry takes a break then, stretching out the kinks in his neck. His back makes a popping noise when he sits all the way up, and Harry grimaces at himself.

"What's the verdict?" he murmurs to Louis, so quiet compared to the richness and the bigness of his voice a moment ago.

Louis coughs, clears his throat. "You're, ah. You're something else."

Harry grins at him with his whole face, beaming like Louis has given him a gift, or some shit. "Thank you. Means a lot, coming from you."

Louis scoffs. "Stop with that. My opinion isn't anything special or important."

Harry rolls his eyes, still grinning. "Yeah, okay. I'm still really pleased to hear it."

“You know,” Louis starts, giving Harry a considering look. “Niall was right. You could be a star, if you tried.”

Harry scoffs.

“No, I mean it! Was Niall telling the truth when he said you don’t look for serious gigs?”

“I don’t want bigger gigs,” Harry insists. “It’s fine, I’m serious.”

“I can tell music is your passion, and I’ve only sat here for—“

"Please drop it,” Harry interrupts. His face is very serious. “Just trust me, yeah?”

"I’m just saying,” Louis mumbles.

Harry doesn’t respond, just looks down at his guitar and re-tunes the bottom strings. He plays a couple more songs without saying much to Louis.

After a startlingly pretty U2 cover, Harry takes a break to drink some water. Suddenly, his eyes widen and he gives Louis a considering look. Then he scoots closer to Louis on the bench to whisper in his ear. "Do you mind if I try something? Feel free to stop me if I fuck it up or if you'd rather I didn't, but. Can I?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. But feel free." The entire side of Louis’ neck feels warm from Harry's breath and the curls brushing against his skin.

"Okay," Harry says, sitting back. "Like I said, stop me if it's bad." He fiddles with his guitar a bit, trying to find the chords he needs before starting up the intro to another song.

Louis inhales sharply when he figures out what it is, and smacks a hand over his face. He can feel his cheeks flushing under his hand, and, no.

It's “What Makes You Beautiful.”

Louis has half a mind to tell Harry to stop, but he's looking at Louis so careful and simultaneously so giddy, and he just doesn't have the heart. He wouldn’t allow this normally, but with Harry it doesn’t seem so bad.

Then Harry is singing the first verse, and Louis resolutely tries not to let any memories come back. It isn’t so difficult. This song feels brand new when Harry sings it, as if it isn’t ten years old and filled with bad memories. Suddenly, Louis realizes he's grinning. He kind of, inexplicably, wants to join in. Harry is contagious. Louis joins in.

Harry looks beyond delighted when Louis adds an upper harmony, and by now, a small crowd has gathered around to watch them. He sees a couple of 20-something women whispering to each other excitedly, and thinks that maybe they recognize him.

This song, god. The last time Louis sang this song in front of people, he was in a sold out arena, on stage with three people he either hated or didn't really care about any more. There were thousands and thousands of fans screaming. Suddenly, the thousands pale in comparison to this, Harry's warm presence at his side, just the two of their voices and Harry's acoustic, sitting on a bench with maybe twelve people in front of them. Louis hasn't felt this good singing since, well. Since.

They finish out the last chorus together, all fourteen of them. Harry and Louis get an extended ovation and a cascade of bank notes and coins into Harry's guitar case. After the rest of the crowd clear off, the two girls that Louis noticed come up to him.

"Can we have your autograph?" one of them blurts, grinning so big.

"And yours?" The other one asks Harry.

Harry laughs, "What do you want mine for? I'm nothing special, just a busker that happens to be sat next to Louis Tomlinson."

The girl blushes and shrugs. "Still."

Louis looks at Harry and winks. "Yeah, sure."

They sign scraps of notebook paper for the girls, Harry scrawling his first name after a moment of hesitation. "How do you make an autograph?" he asks Louis in an undertone.

"Scribble," Louis advises. "Scribble and flourish, and add a little symbol." He shows Harry his own messy scrawl with two x's and a smiley face after it.

Harry shrugs and doodles a small flower next to his own. "That'll have to do."

Louis laughs again, exhilarated. "Look at you. You're a little pop star now too."

The girls thank them and leave, shooting the two of them excited glances as they walk away.

"That was fun," Louis says, leaning back against the bench next to Harry.

"'S why I do it," Harry tells him, leaning back too so that they're shoulder to shoulder. "I don't usually get a crowd like that, though. Usually just old ladies who feel bad for me."

"I don't believe that for a second," Louis sniffs. "There's no need to be modest."

"I don't usually clean up like that," Harry amends, gesturing to his case. "Reckon I could probably go home now, if I wanted to."

"Do you want to?"

Harry bites his lips and shakes his head. "I really don't want to."

"Mind if I stay with you a bit longer, then?"

"Please do," Harry says. "And feel free to sing along more, if you want to."

"You're only saying that because I'm profitable," Louis teases, staring at Harry's mouth.

Harry shrugs. "That's partially true. But. You know."

"Mhm. Now start the next song, please."

Harry butts his head against Louis' shoulder. "Yeah, okay, pop star."

"Disgraced former pop star," Louis says automatically.

"Nah," Harry murmurs, and it makes Louis' tummy flutter.

They stay at that bench for hours, until the bottom of Harry’s guitar case is almost completely covered. Louis can tell that, despite what Harry said, he usually does attract a crowd, because that's just how he is. He's just eye-catching. Louis wonders why he’s never stopped to watch Harry play (because they _must_ have crossed paths at least once), but then he thinks about the way he always averts his eyes when he sees buskers. Makes sense, then.

At some point, Harry notices that Louis' shivering, and frowns. "We should go."

"No, it's fine," Louis insists. "Play more, if you like."

Harry's mouth quirks. "My fingers are getting cold. Let's go, yeah?"

"Dinner?" Louis suggests impulsively. "There's a good place that I know of."

 "Or," Harry says, holding up a finger, "We could go back to mine and I could cook something for you."

Louis's stomach floods with warmth at the idea, but he tries not to think about it. For now. "Breakfast was pretty delicious, last week," he says instead of answering.

"You should see what I can do with pasta," Harry replies.

"This is just a thinly veiled excuse to get me into your flat and then into your bed, isn't it?" Louis smirks.

Harry nods, smirking. "It is. But I am a good cook, so."

He looks so pretty and so hopeful, with his eyes bright and his cheeks pink from the cold. Louis can't help himself. He puts a hand on either side of Harry's face and leans in to give him a kiss that goes for longer than he intended. "Sounds great," he answers breathlessly.

Harry giggles at him. Actually giggles.

Louis can't bring himself to be anything other than endeared by it.

\--

Louis wakes up alone in Harry's small, ridiculously comfortable bed, with his face buried in one of Harry's many pillows. Before he's properly awake, he takes a deep, appreciative sniff. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent and... Bacon?

Louis lifts his head, sniffing the air. No, the bacon smell is coming from outside of the room. Probably from the kitchen. His stomach gives a happy rumble. Harry is a very, very good cook.

Louis stands up, looks at the clothes strewn around the floor, but waves his hand at them. Overrated. It's warm enough inside the flat.

He stretches luxuriously as he steps out of the room, with a yawn so big his eyes squint closed and his jaw cracks. When he rubs the sleep from his eyes and finally looks around, he's already in Harry's kitchenette. It is a very small flat.

Harry's not there, but someone else is. Someone who is just as surprised to see Louis as Louis is to see him.

"Hello, mate," the boy croaks. "I'm Liam."

"Louis," he replies, his voice scratchy. He tries not to think about the fact that he's naked, and that he probably has bruises on his hips and neck and chest. Instead, he tells himself that this is the first and last time that he sees this boy, this Liam, so it doesn't really matter what he thinks. He tries telling himself that, anyway.

"I'll just," Louis says, gesturing behind him back to the room. Get some clothes, he means to say. Go wait for Harry. Go back to bed and hopefully disappear in his sleep. Before he can move to do any of those things, though, the front door opens and Harry bounds in.

He takes in the scene in front of him and it looks like he tries very hard not to laugh. His eyes twinkle, though, and he has a dimple in one cheek. Louis blushes, ridiculously.

"Good morning," Harry says easily. He sets down the bag in his arms. "Sorry. I had to run to get some orange juice and eggs, because we were out." He opens the refrigerator and puts the juice in, then pulls a frying pan down from the cabinet, all without looking away from Louis. "This is Liam, by the way. Liam, Louis."

"We've met," Louis says, striving for casual and missing, probably. He is very aware that Liam is staring resolutely at a point over his shoulder.

"Probably should have mentioned I had a flatmate," Harry says. "My fault."

"No, no, it's fine," Liam and Louis stutter together.

Louis opens his mouth again, then closes it and turns to go back to Harry's room for his clothes. He puts them on hurriedly, taking his shirt back off once when he puts it on backwards, then again when he notices it’s inside out, and comes back out. It's okay. He's been naked in front of tons of people before, though perhaps none of them was as awkward about it as Liam.

There's a plate of bacon waiting for him on the table when he comes back out. He's not sure if it was there the whole time. Harry is frying eggs, and Liam is gone.

Louis raises his eyebrow at Harry, pointing to the empty chair. Harry nods toward a door across from the kitchenette. Liam's room, probably.

"Whoops," he says quietly.

Harry snorts at that, muffling it in his hand. Louis tries to frown at him, but after a moment the corners of his mouth are twitching. It really doesn't take long until Louis cracks, bursting into hysterical, muffled laughter. Harry lets out a little squawk and claps his hand over his face, laughing hard and silently. They laugh until they're red-faced, until Louis is curled on the floor, with one hand over his stomach, and Harry is slumped over the sink.

When they've finally calmed down a bit, Louis asks, "Is he usually like that?"

"He's been worse, actually," Harry says quietly, turning off the eggs and taking a seat next to Louis on the floor. "He's usually fine with other people, though. Doesn't bat an eye at my cock, at least." Harry winks.

"He's just uncomfortable around strangers, then? Well. Naked strangers, I guess."

Harry clears his throat. "He, erm. He was a big fan of Touch, also. So."

"So he knew exactly who I was."

Harry nods. "So, he went through a phase several years ago where he dressed exactly like you and cut his hair in the same style you had in about 2003."

Louis stares at him, jaw hanging open. Then he buries his face in Harry's shoulder, laughing helplessly, again.

"I'm pretty sure he was about to ask you to sign his face," Harry continues lightly.

Louis swats at him.

When he finally gets ahold of himself, his stomach growls loudly again. "Food," Louis declares, standing up. "Food time."

Harry laughs, standing up again to get the eggs. "I'll bring it right to you, master."

"You're a doll," Louis tells him, grinning sweetly.

Harry scoops some eggs onto his plate and drops a good morning kiss on his mouth, heedless of Louis' probably devastating morning breath. Then he sits across from Louis with his own plate and turns on the radio.

It's very different from a usual morning for Louis. First of all, he's awake. He’s also dressed, and eating breakfast that isn’t a bowl of cereal. The thing is, though, he can imagine doing this every day. If Harry was his boyfriend, they could have mornings like this all the time, eating home-cooked breakfast and embarrassing Harry’s roommate. Louis chews thoughtfully, watches Harry's hand as he absent-mindedly taps his fingers to the radio. This is something that Louis could see him falling into.

But that's silly. Harry isn't his boyfriend. Louis has only ever had two boyfriend, and both were a short-lived relationships that ended years ago. It isn't really something he wants anyway. It's not something that would work.

Harry steals some bacon from Louis' plate without even looking up, a smirk curling his lips.

It's nice right now, he decides. Whether or not this is the last morning he'll see Harry doesn't matter, because right now, he likes this.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Harry asks. Louis doesn't know how long he's been watching him.

Louis blinks hard. "No thoughts, I'm afraid. It's taking me a while to wake up."

Harry nods once, then meets Louis' eyes and bites his lip.

Louis waits for him to say something. He doesn't. "Something on my face?" he asks.

Harry shrugs. "Beauty."

Louis snorts loudly at that. "Save the lines, Casanova."

"You should've seen it coming, with a set up like that."

"I guess I was under the mistaken impression that you were suave and subtle and not at all a cheeseball."

"You were wrong," Harry says, delighted.

Louis sticks out his tongue.

"But, er." Harry bites his lip again. That seems to be what he does when he's trying hard to not say something.

"Say it," Louis commands, shoveling more egg into his mouth.

"Are you really not going to write that song?" Harry asks, very carefully.

Louis blinks, because that was probably the last thing he expected to hear. "Erm. Well, yeah. I guess. After yesterday, I kind of thought I'd give it a go again."

"What do mean, after yesterday?"

"Well." Louis shrugs, looks down. "I guess I was being a little, you know. When I told you that I didn't want to write it. But then you took me busking, and it made me feel better, so. I want to try again."

Harry's grin is blinding. "Brilliant," he says. "I'm so glad."

"Why?" Louis asks. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I mean." Harry covers his face, groaning. "This is going to sound twatty, Jesus Christ. But, I was wondering... You said that you didn't really fancy yourself a lyricist, which is bollocks, like I've said, but..."

"Before tomorrow, please," Louis says when Harry doesn't seem to want to continue from there.

Harry clears his throat. "I was wondering if I could... help you? Not that I think you need the help," he rushes to get out, saying the last sentence probably six times faster than he said anything else before it. "Not necessarily to help you write, if you don't want that. Just, like. To cheer you on. In case you need something like that, or anything. I mean, I know it always helps me when I'm not sure about something, not that you're unsure, just that it helps when—“

"Harry," Louis says, interrupting him. "You’re going to hurt yourself."

Harry snaps his mouth shut, a flush coming up in his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it isn't that." Louis bites back a smile. "You're very sweet, really, I appreciate it. But I can't let you do that."

Harry deflates a little. "Why not?"

"Because I'm supposed to write it," Louis tells him. "It would be so, so unfair to you for me to do that. You know? I feel like I'd be taking advantage. Your stuff is good, Harry. You'd probably end up writing most of it if I let you help."

"Is that—I mean. Thank you, first of all. But, like..."

Louis sighs again. "Are you always this slow about getting things out?"

"Yes," Harry admits sheepishly. "It's just. Well. It wouldn't be taking advantage, because. I'm offering."

"Harry," Louis laughs. "It’s a lot to offer, you know?"

"It really isn't," Harry says, frowning. "I write songs for fun, all the time. And I'd be doing this for fun, too. I mean, considering that I'd get to spend time with you to do it." He smirks.

Louis considers it. He really does need the help, is the thing. And it isn't as though he couldn't get the label to give Harry credit for writing the song alongside Louis. That shouldn't be a problem. Harry is looking at him so earnestly, that there's really no reason for Louis to turn him down right now.

"If at any point you feel like backing out—“ Louis starts, but Harry can tell it's a yes before he even gets to the end and lets out a cheer.

"Thank you," Harry says, leaning over the table to press a smacking kiss to Louis' mouth.

"I should be thanking you," Louis says, feeling warm all over. "I'd be helpless otherwise, you know."

Harry huffs out a sigh. "Please, just shut up."

Louis lets out a long laugh at that. "Fine, okay. What brought this on, anyway? Are you just a good Samaritan that picks up languishing singers in clubs and solves their problems?"

"Whoops, you caught me. But, basically..." Harry bites his lip again, and Louis throws his hands up in despair.

"Can you please say things in a timely fashion?"

"I just. I still feel really presumptuous."

Louis flicks him on the forehead. "Don't be stupid. And please, don't use words so big before noon. I am not intellectually ready for that."

Harry laughs. "When I was making breakfast, I was thinking about that line you were messing with in the coffee shop, the other day. And I. I, erm." Louis raises his eyebrows threateningly, so Harry barrels on. "I thought of a couple more lines to go after it," he rushes out.

"Let's have them, then," Louis says.

Harry pulls a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket and slides it over to Louis.

Louis unfolds it and reads over it quietly, thumbing the corner of the page. He reads it a second time more slowly, soaking in each carefully scrawled word. "Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, that's brilliant."

"Yeah? You like it?" Harry asks, nervous still.

"Of course." Louis rolls his eyes, smiling. "So, that's the chorus done, then. It's perfect."

Harry's answering smile is blinding.

They finish breakfast quickly after that, dumping their dishes in the sink before going back to Harry's room, where his guitar is. Before Louis knows it, he's lounging in Harry's pile of pillows, pen in hand and Harry jabbering excitedly next to him.

He can definitely do this, he and Harry can. He knows it, this time.

\--

After about eight hours of excited yelling, messing around on Harry's guitar, and lots of kissing, Louis is exhausted. He's stretched out on his back on top of a pile of crumpled pieces of paper with endless verses (that for whatever reason weren't exactly what Louis wanted) and trying so hard not to fall asleep right there.

They have a melody for the chorus, now, and a chord progression. It's very nice. It's only a chorus, though.

Well. They do have some ideas for verses. But they're just ideas. None of them is quite good enough.

Even though they still have so much work ahead of them, and it’s already Tuesday night, Louis can’t remember being happy quite this way in a long time. It’s not the kind of happy he gets from performing, when he gets to do small shows now or open for newer acts. It isn’t quite the happy he gets from going out and dancing, either. It’s something different, sort of like wearied satisfaction. The satisfaction of hard work. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, to say the least.

Harry is absolutely every stereotype of a hippie musician weirdo, and it amuses Louis as much as it has annoyed him at different parts of the day. He completely refuses to write music with any clothes on, which isn’t a problem. He’s not content to leave a line or a riff alone until he’s absolutely satisfied with it, which is a problem.

At one point, he insisted that he had to stay under the bed for a moment, to understand what it felt like to have a literally dusty heart. Louis is almost certain he was taking the piss, that time. Almost.

Louis rolls over with a crunch, batting several sheets of paper to the ground. It suddenly dawns on him that he's been in Harry's presence for a solid 24 hours without noticing. Frowning, he sits up and stretches out his neck.

Harry comes back into the room with two glasses of water. He has a deep purple bruise on his collarbone and Louis feels heat bloom in his stomach pleasantly at the memory. After hour two, when they'd gotten into a bit of a dispute on whether they should use a D chord or a G chord after A, Louis had settled it by pushing Harry flat on his back, holding his arms down by the wrist, and kissing his neck until Harry flopped back, pliant. It had been a good diversion, and Louis’ jaw is still pleasantly achy. And Louis had got his way, as always.

"I think we're probably done for the night," Louis admits. "I don't know if I could muster another line about cobwebs or mold after all of that. It would probably be worse than any of our previous tries, and that's saying something." He accepts the glass of water when Harry hands it to him, and tips his head up. Harry kisses him, long and slow for a moment. Louis finds himself sinking into it, but reminds himself that it's been a while since he's seen his own flat. Someone might have broken in by now, or something.

"D'you want to get something to eat and call it a night?" Harry murmurs into Louis' mouth.

Louis presses a last, quick kiss to his mouth before pulling away. "I should get going, actually," he says apologetically. "Visit my own bed for a change. I wouldn't want to impose."

Harry's mouth quirks. "You wouldn't be. I don't mind."

For a moment, Louis reconsiders. It would be so easy to have dinner with Harry, their fifth meal in a row together, and stay the night in Harry's bed with its five million pillows again. It would probably be nice to wake up tangled up in Harry's long limbs at a normal time to wake up and get back to writing this song. Harry would probably, definitely, make him breakfast again.

Louis sighs. He really, really needs to get home.

"I should get back, though," Louis says again. Then, because he can't stop himself, "How about you come over to mine tomorrow morning? I have an old upright piano, if we wanna some more instrumentation, or whatever."

Harry grins. "Yeah, okay. Maybe I'll figure out what color the walls are this time."

Louis feels a little shock when he realizes what Harry's referencing. He'd completely forgotten that Harry had been to his flat before.

What a strange day. Two days. Whatever.

Louis finishes his water and sets the glass down, standing up. He'd put on some trackies and a jumper that Harry had lent him when they'd showered after Harry’s experimental foray under the bed. He starts pulling them off now, looking around the floor for what he wore yesterday.

Harry stops his hands. "Keep 'em. What's the point in changing if I'm just going to see you tomorrow?"

Louis shrugs. "Yeah, okay. Might get looks, though. I kind of look like a hobo with these hanging off of me like this." He sticks his arm straight out, letting the sleeve hang down from his hand.

"You don't look like a hobo," Harry says, appraising him. “You look kind of," he waves his hand. "You know."

Louis raises his eyebrow. "Can't say I do."

Harry traces his finger over one of Louis' exposed collarbones, dipping his hand down his jumper to pet at Louis' chest hair. "Comfy and sexy," he says. "Cuddly."

Louis grins. "I am all of those things, yes. Do you want a cuddle?"

"Always want a cuddle," Harry murmurs, pulling Louis in. He runs his big hands over Louis' back and shoulders, and his breath ruffles the hair at the top of Louis's head.

"That's good," Louis whispers, snuggling into Harry's bare chest. He has such a good chest, all muscular and broad. And with that fucking butterfly tattoo on his abs. "I can definitely work with cuddling."

Harry makes a happy little noise. Louis bets that if he cranes his neck back, he'll see Harry smiling with his eyes closed. If he pulls back, though, Harry will probably open his eyes and he might let Louis go. Louis doesn't want that, not just yet.

"Why do you have a giant butterfly tattoo?" he asks, instead.

Harry giggles into the crown of his head. "It's a moth," he says.

"It's very butterfly-ish, if it's a moth," Louis replies, sleepily. "I'd go so far as to say it's actually a butterfly whether you admit to it or not."

"Okay," Harry says, not sounding at all bothered. "You can say it's a butterfly, if you want to."

"Good," Louis replies. He noses at Harry's collarbones and rests his forehead against Harry's neck. Harry hasn’t really answered the question, he notices. "It's a very pretty butterfly."

"You're very pretty," Harry replies easily.

Louis smiles into Harry's skin. "Stop."

"Mm."

They're rocking back and forth slightly, though Louis doesn't remember who started it. It's nice, comfortable. It's so, so comfortable. Louis doesn't quite want to pull away, ever.

He has to go home, though. He presses a bunch of quick little kisses to Harry's chest and pulls back. "Thank you," he says quietly.

The look in Harry's eyes is soft and affectionate. "For what?"

Louis shrugs. "Having me here. Cooking me meals. Helping me with this song and saving my arse. You know, everything."

"It's my pleasure, believe me."

Louis sighs. "I really need to go."

"You have my number," Harry says with a nod.

"I do," Louis says. "I'll text you when I wake up, yeah?"

"Perfect." Harry is still looking at him all warm and fond, so Louis looks away. If he doesn't, he'll probably never leave this flat again. It's a problem.

He grabs his phone, keys, and wallet from off the side table and presses a last, lingering kiss to Harry's mouth before he leaves.

It feels weird to be alone, suddenly. Weirder than it should. Louis notices on the short walk back to his flat how odd it is, all of a sudden, to be in silence.

The first thing he does when he walks inside is open his laptop and put on some music. It's not quite the same, but it’ll do.

\--

Louis wakes up at eight to a text from Herb.

_How's the song? The boys from UJ want to meet you today._

Louis blinks at the message for a solid 30 seconds before it makes sense. Then, his stomach drops.

He pushes dial to call Herb right away.

"Hello, Louis. This is very early for you."

"Herb, I am writing the song," Louis rushes to get out. "I know I was ignoring you, but I do have something."

There’s a beat of silence before Herb exhales a relieved sigh. "That's great, Lou."

"Yeah," Louis mutters. "I just, ah. This is something I want. But."

"But?"

Louis bites his lip. "I just have a chorus and a chord progression. It's not quite enough to show them today, is it?"

"They want to meet you at 7," Herb tells him. "You do have some time, if you think you can get something down."

Louis nods to himself. Seven is okay. Seven is almost 11 hours away.

"I'm not writing it on my own," Louis says. This is probably something Herb should know before they go meet Union J together, really. "I'm getting help from, er, a friend."

"Aiden?" Herb asks, confused.

"I have more friends than just Aiden, Herb," Louis scoffs, mostly for show.

"Well, you've been hiding them from me, then."

This is true. Herb knows everything that goes on in Louis' social life. He's not going to be able to pretend that he's known Harry for any significant amount of time.

"I, ah, I just met him last week," Louis says. "He's a really good songwriter, though. Plays guitar and sings, too, and I thought we could have him on the demo."

"Is he someone I know of?"

"Probably not."

"Okay," Herb says. "How did you find him?"

"Erm. In a club."

"Oh, he was performing?"

“Well, no.”

"Lou," Herb sighs. "How do you actually know him?"

"I may have picked him up in said club," Louis says. "And then I saw him again the other day in a café. We busked together. And we've been working on the song since yesterday."

Herb is quiet for a long moment. "So, he's basically a stranger."

"I wouldn't say that, necessarily," Louis hedges.

"You're writing a song for Union J, which is probably the biggest opportunity for you in years, and you're entrusting it to someone you picked off the street. More or less."

"I'm not entrusting him with it completely. We're co-writing," Louis says, defensive.

"You know what I mean, Lou."

Louis sighs, loud and gusty. "Yes, then. But it's working! Isn't that what counts?"

Herb is quiet again. "Yeah, it is," he says finally, surprisingly. Louis had been expecting a lecture, maybe of the "you're better than this" variety.

"Really?" he squeaks.

"Yeah," Herb says, and Louis catches something in his voice. Something that sounds—well, it almost sounds proud. "Yeah, Lou. That's what counts. If it's going well, that's what counts. You're having fun, right?"

"Loads," Louis says immediately.

"Okay," Herb says. "Just make sure you get something more done by 7, yeah? It doesn't have to be done, they said, but they are trying to narrow down their choices today. It's alright if it's rough."

"But it better be good," Louis guesses. "Or I'll be out of the running."

"Yeah, that's about right. No pressure."

"No pressure," Louis repeats faintly. "Right."

"I mean it, Lou," Herb says firmly. "They like you. They like you a lot. You have a real shot here, no matter the time issues."

"Yeah, okay," Louis says. "Okay, Herb. I believe you. I have to go now."

"Good luck. I'll call you around 6 to make sure you're ready."

"Yup," Louis says, and hangs up. He hurries to the kitchen and starts opening drawers. The note that Harry left with his number is somewhere. Louis knows he took it and folded it up and put it in a drawer somewhere in the kitchen. He closes his eyes, tries to remember the exact moment he did it. Then he groans and starts digging through the cabinets again.

There's a knock on his door ten minutes later, when Louis is sitting on the floor, trying hard not to hyperventilate or cry.

He dashes to the door and wrenches it open. "Harry!" he all but screeches, flinging his arms around Harry's neck. "I am really, really glad to see you."

Harry chuckles and wraps Louis up tight, rocking him like last night. "Not that I mind the welcome, but is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine!" Louis says, too loud. He's vaguely aware that his eyes are open very wide and his hair is still everywhere from sleeping on it funny. Harry's probably right to look a bit alarmed. "It's just that, well, no, I'm panicking. And I can't find your number. Though I kept your note, I swear I did."

"Give me your phone," Harry says, still smiling despite everything. "I'll add it, yeah?"

Louis hands it over. "Good, okay, yeah, but that's only problem number one."

"How many problems are there?"

"Well, it depends on how you divide it up. Because, see, it's a problem that we don't have a first verse, and it's a problem that we don't have a second verse, and it's a problem that we only have a bare chord progression and need to add other stuff, but the main problem really is that we're meeting Union J at 7 o'clock tonight."

"Union J?" Harry says, raising his eyebrows. "'Carry You' Union J?"

"The one and only," Louis agrees.

"Why are we meeting Union J?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? That's who this song is for."

Harry's eyes positively bug out of his head. "This song is for Union J?"

Louis nods. "And they want to see what we have by seven tonight. So they can decide whether or not they want to choose our song."

Harry fishmouths at Louis, then snaps his jaw shut. "I think I need to have a seat," he announces.

Louis leads him over to the couch and lets him sit down. Then he promptly climbs into Harry's lap and hugs his own knees. He really can't help it. "This is going to be difficult," he says honestly.

"It is," Harry agrees, wrapping his arms around Louis’ middle. "It is going to be difficult. Union J, wow." He blinks hard, looking down at Louis. "I really like them, you know? Like. I'm not sure how I'm going to keep myself together enough to meet them, let alone writing a song for them. _Wow_."

Louis nods. "They're definitely big shit. Bigger shit than I ever was, for sure."

There's a pause where Harry seems to come back to himself a bit. "Hey, no. Stop. You're brilliant."

Louis waves his hand. "No need to say that."

"Really, stop," Harry repeats, rubbing a circle on Louis’ chest. "We can do this. Like, yeah, it's a bit much, but we still have hours and hours to work on this. They don't need a demo by then, right?"

Louis shakes his head. "Probably just want us to play for them. Actually, I should ask Herb. Let me do that."

He calls Herb, making sure to breathe slowly. Herb doesn't need to know how bad he's freaking out. He picks up after two rings.

"Herb, they don't need a demo tonight, right?"

"No," Herb says, and Louis breathes out. "They just want you to play it. You and—what was his name, Harry?"

"Yeah, me and Harry," Louis says, and feels Harry turn his head to look at him questioningly. "So that's all?"

"Yup," Herb says. "You're meeting them on Skype, since they're out of the country at the moment."

"Okay," Louis says, releasing a long breath. "Okay, okay. That's all fine then."

"Alright, Lou, gotta go. I'm getting another call."

"I love you, Herbie," Louis tells him. "A lot."

Herb laughs. "Yeah, love you too. You know that."

Louis slumps back into Harry's arms.

"Who's Herb?" Harry asks, faux-casual, and Louis snorts.

"Herb is my manager. Always has been, all the way back to Touch. He has a wife and three children, so there's no need to get your claws up."

"My claws weren't up," Harry replies immediately.

"They were, a little bit."

"Okay, well, maybe. Sorry."

Louis smiles. "It's alright."

"No demo, then?"

Louis shakes his head. "Skype conference."

"Phew."

"Yup." He shifts back into Harry's lap, craning his neck to look back at him. "You wanna get started on those verses, then?"

"Yeah, let's get to it.”

After a moment of trying to make themselves comfortable, they finally settle down in Louis’ bed. Harry, as per his own rules, has stripped down naked.

“You remember that line you came up with, last night? That you hate?”

"All of them?" Louis answers dryly. "I hate all of them."

"No. That _one_. You know the one that I'm talking about. The one that was really good."

"That would be none of them."

"Stop." Harry swats at Louis' shoulder. "Don't make me stroke your ego again."

"When did you stroke my ego?" Louis frowns.

Harry gives Louis a slow blink. "I'm pretty sure I've not done much else the past two days but shower you with praise. Praise that you deserve, of course."

Louis drops his head into the duvet. "That makes me feel worse,” he says, muffled. “Why did you say that?"

"I'm sorry," Harry says. He's not touching Louis. "I didn't mean to phrase it like that."

"I guess you're right, though," Louis sighs.

"About what?"

Louis doesn't say anything, just sighs again. After a moment, Harry drops down next to him, gently touches his shoulder.

"Lou?"

"Hm?" Louis grumbles.

"I'm sorry," Harry says softly, and tentatively gives Louis' back a little rub. "I didn't mean anything by it. I think you're wonderful, despite, you know, that we’ve just met. You know that?"

"Wonderful," Louis mumbles into the blanket. "Whatever."

Harry recoils a little from that, and moves back so he's not touching Louis any more. Louis doesn't like that.

"No, stop," Louis says finally, lifting his head up. "I don't mean to be a twat. Please ignore me."

Harry is looking at him very carefully. "Okay. Well, not okay, because I don't want to ignore you. But you're not being a twat."

Louis closes his eyes, almost puts his head back down again, but doesn't. "I am. I’m being the twattiest twat from Twatswille, Twatland."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Louis scoffs. "No."

"Maybe later?"

"Probably not." Louis shrugs.

Harry bites his lip. "Okay. Do we just move on, then?"

"Yes." Louis opens his mouth to say something, and considers in his mind very carefully how to say it. “I think so, too. That you’re wonderful.”

Harry’s eyebrows raise, surprised. Louis thinks he can see a little flush rise on his cheeks. They stare at each other for a moment, until Louis abruptly breaks eye contact.

He sits back up and pushes his hair back out of his face, then clears his throat. "So, what line were you talking about? That you wanted us to use?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and blinks rapidly, as if to clear his head. "Yeah, it was, er. Something about cobwebs?"

"We tried a lot of lines about cobwebs." Louis looks down. "Was it something about eyes? There are cobwebs behind my eyes?"

"Yes," Harry says. "Yes, that one. I think we should start the first verse with that line."

"It sucks."

"It doesn't, and I'll fight you on it," Harry says firmly. Louis looks up to see that, firmness aside, there's a little smile quirking up Harry's mouth and his eyes are bright. "I _like_ it."

"Okay," Louis says, smiling despite himself. "Okay, so what should go after it?'

Harry grabs a pen from the pocket of his discarded jeans and looks around until Louis hands him a notebook. He writes out Louis' line and bites the back of his pen. After a few moments of staring, he writes out another line. Then another. He crosses out the second line and writes a new one, then crosses that one out too and writes a new one. He stares at it again, before passing it over to Louis.

Louis reads it, and then nods. "Kind of depressing. But I like it."

"Yeah?"

"We can work with it," Louis says, shooting Harry a tentative smile. "We might have to change this line, though," he says, pointing to the first line.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Give it up. We're sticking with the cobweb line."

Louis sighs. "Do we really want to open the song with it, though? Like, right off the bat?"

"Yes," Harry says, pushing his shoulder playfully. "We are starting with that line. Do you need me to blow you to make you agree?"

Louis' dick gives a twitch at that, and he rubs at it absently. "Might be nice. We don't exactly have time, though."

"Always time for blowjobs," Harry declares grandly, tugging at Louis' waistband.

Louis swats him away. "No. Songwriting. We are going to write this song, and then you can blow me all you want after."

"Promise?" Harry murmurs, rumbling against Louis' neck. "All I want?"

A shiver runs through Louis' entire body. "Yeah," he says breathlessly. "But if you don't get off me, we won't get this song written today."

Harry gives Louis' earlobe a teasing little bite, but rolls away.

Louis clears his throat a few times. "So, okay. We have a first verse now. Or, the beginning of a first verse."

"We should probably add more to it," Harry says after a second. "Bit short, otherwise."

Louis slumps forward.

He rolls onto his stomach and pulls the notebook back to him. He bites the end of the pen again, like he's thinking, but then drops it down on the page. "I'm not inspired," he says decisively. "I need to be inspired."

Louis blinks at him. "Inspired?"

Harry nods. "I'm not in the writing head space. I'm just not feeling this right now, you know?"

"No," Louis says slowly. "I don't know."

"It's like," Harry starts gesturing with his hands, and that's when Louis knows he's in for it. "It's like, you know how footballers get into zones sometimes, where they're just unstoppable? Like, they can do whatever they want on the field, and they just score over and over and over?"

"Sure."

"I'm not in that zone right now."

Louis nods slowly. "Well, that may be because we're writing a song, and not playing footie."

"No, but there's a writing zone," Harry explains patiently. "Where I can understand the way I want a song to sound, and all of the lyrics just come together. I'm not in that place. We can't write right now."

"But." Louis frowns. "We have to. We have to write the song now."

"Let's go for a walk," Harry decides, standing up. "That will inspire me. We'll go for a quick walk, I'll find my zone, and we can start writing."

"Why do we need to go for a walk? Can't you find your, er, your zone in here?" Louis is almost tempted to suggest that they look under the bed for Harry's zone, in case it crawled under there to hide, but Harry is being deadly serious about this. Louis thinks. This could be some elaborate joke and Harry's about to burst out cackling and yell, "Gotcha!"

It doesn't seem like it, though. Harry is stepping back into his clothes.

"At least let me get a jacket," Louis says.

"No hurry," Harry says, grabbing his own jacket from the hook.

Louis wants to point out that there definitely is a hurry, since it is now approaching nine in the morning (they only have 10 hours left), but refrains. Just a quick walk, Harry said. And then he'll be in his zone and they can write. It won't take long, once they get it together, really.

\--

They're about 20 minutes into their impromptu walk around London when Harry suddenly stops and points at a bench.

"That one," he declares.

Louis squints at it. There isn't anything special about it that he can see. "Why that one?"

"It's perfect," Harry says, ambling over to it. "Look at it."

"It's a bench."

Harry rolls his eyes. "It's a bench where thousands of arses, attached to all sorts of people, have sat. Maybe some animals too," he muses, sitting down himself and taking his pen out of his pocket. "Think of how many times the sun has shined on this bench."

"It's London," Louis says, gesturing towards the sky, "so not many."

Harry ignores him. "Think of how many people have kissed on this bench," he says, with a grin.

"It's not exactly ideal for a snog," Louis points out.

Harry leans over and presses a lingering, teasing kiss to Louis' mouth. "At least two people now," he murmurs.

"You're weird," Louis decides.

"Thank you," Harry replies cheerfully. "Let's write this song now."

The thing is that Harry _is_ weird. He is _so_ weird, probably one of the weirdest people Louis has ever met. He manages to make it mostly charming though, with his silly tattoos and his bizarre songwriting methods and his ridiculous, too-big-for-his-face dimply grin. Louis can't help but be taken by it, at least just a little. _For now just a little_ , a voice in his brain says ominously. Louis tamps it down and watches Harry write. He's bent over Louis’ composition book with the pen caught between his teeth as usual. He's twining one of his curls between the fingers of his free hand as he writes a few lines, frowns at them, rewrites them, and frowns again.

"Can I look?" Louis asks.

Harry hands over the notebook wordlessly.

Louis reads the lines a couple of times through. They're good, but he understands why Harry was frowning. They just don't flow quite right. "May I?" Louis asks, reaching for the pen.

"Please," Harry says, handing it over.

Louis crosses out a few words in the first line and crosses out the last line entirely, then writes a new one. It still isn't quite right, so he passes it back to Harry.

Harry takes it back and peers at it for a moment, before making some tweaks of his own. They pass it back and forth a couple more times, until finally Louis holds it at arm's length and gives it an approving nod. He shows Harry his final change, and Harry grins.

"Perfect," he murmurs.

Squished in among many crossing outs and rewrites, are three lines. The two of them stare at it for amount, rereading.

"I like it," Louis says, disbelieving.

Harry gives him a soft smile, and Louis' breath stops for a little moment. Then Harry reaches over as if to ruffle Louis' hair and Louis quickly swats his hand away.

This boy is cute, but he isn't that cute.

“And look,” Louis says, “you did it with your clothes on.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Are you suggesting something?”

“Never,” Louis promises. “Now, shall we get back to writing?”

"How about we take a break and get some lattes instead?" he suggests.

"We still have another verse to write," Louis protests. "And probably a bridge."

Harry waves his hand. "Don't be ridiculous. We just made a creative breakthrough. We need a break." He grabs Louis' hand and twines their fingers, standing up.

"Okay," Louis says. He feels almost giddy, like his stomach is full of bubbles and his throat is lined with fizz.

Harry raises one eyebrow at him. "'Okay?' No argument? This is new."

Louis pushes Harry's shoulder with his free hand. "Don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Harry winks.

Louis bites back an undignified giggle and squeezes Harry's fingers. "Let's get those lattes."

Neither of them is familiar with this part of town, really, so they decide to amble down the street until they inevitably find a Starbucks or something. Louis is regaling Harry with some story about what he and Aiden got up to in Spain last time, when he notices that Harry suddenly goes very tense.

Louis gives Harry a searching look, but Harry is just staring ahead. He doesn't seem to be looking at anything. “Is everything alright?”

“What?” Harry turns his head to give Louis a very big, very fake smile. His gaze snags on something over Louis’ shoulder before he quickly averts his eyes.

Louis turns to where Harry was looking, but all that’s there is the front of a bookshop. There’s a display for _The Andrew Dylan Story_ with a sign that reads, “Now a Major Motion Picture!” but that’s all. Louis reminds himself guiltily that he still hasn’t given Carol back her copy.

Still. Louis can’t figure out why Harry would go so stiff and closed-off over a book.

“Are you feeling alright? Should we head back?” Louis asks.

“I’m fine,” he says tightly. “Just zoned out. I’m listening to you, I swear.” Again, he tries to give Louis his usual tummy-fluttering grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes at all.

He doesn't want to talk about it, Louis can tell. He makes a quick decision. "If you'd been listening to me," he teases, "you wouldn't have been zoning out."

Harry drops his head bashfully. "I guess not."

"I guess I won't finish that story then," Louis sniffs. "If I have such an ungrateful audience, I'm not going to waste my breath."

"No, please tell me." Harry gives him an apologetic little pout. "I promise I'll listen this time, really."

Louis bumps their shoulders together. "Nah, it's okay. Kind of a dull story anyway, if I'm honest. Maybe another time."

"Okay," Harry says.

"Besides, here's our Starbucks," Louis says, pointing down the block at a green and white sign. "No time to finish my story."

Harry finally gives him a fully real, twinkly little smile. "That's probably a good thing, right?"

"Hey," Louis says loudly as Harry collapses into giggles next to him. "I resent that. Maybe I'll just have my celebratory coffee by myself, then."

"No, no." Harry drops Louis' hand and wraps around him from behind as they're walking, rubbing his face into Louis' neck and shoulder. Louis shivers a little at the feel of Harry's curls against his skin. "Please have coffee with me. I'll listen to all of your stories,” he whispers into Louis’ ear, then presses a little kiss to it, and a stronger shudder runs through Louis.

"You're forgiven," Louis says, voice a little tight.

"Hm," Harry breathes into Louis' hair. "Your ears are sensitive, aren't they."

"Not really," Louis replies. Harry is still wrapped around him, and they've stopped walking entirely.

"I think so," Harry whispers, his lips rubbing against the shell of Louis' ear. He nips at the skin just behind Louis' earlobe. "Is it just your ears, or your neck too?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Louis' voice cracks in the middle, when Harry softly closes his teeth on the skin of Louis' neck, just above his collarbone. He feels Harry's lips curve into a smirk against his skin.

"I'm going to have fun with you later," Harry murmurs into Louis' ear again, and then lets him go completely.

Louis involuntarily lets out a little whine, and that makes Harry positively beam. "I hate you," Louis tells him, glaring, as he tries to covertly adjust his trousers. "I honestly do."

Harry's grin doesn't falter as he pulls out the door and gives a little bow, indicating that Louis should go in.

Louis spares a thought for how quick the transition was, just now, from what Harry's tense expression when they were in front of the bookshop to now. He pushes it aside, though. Perhaps Harry was just distracted, and it wasn't anything.

Harry tries to push Louis towards a little table by the window. "What should I order for you?" he asks.

"I'm paying," Louis says immediately. " _You_ go save a table."

"No, I'm paying," Harry says, stepping closer. "Since I was so impolite about your story. Besides," he says, his voice turning quiet and silky. "It'll be a lot easier for you to hide that boner if you're sitting." He gives Louis a little push.

"Hate you," Louis reminds him, but goes to sit anyway. Harry's right, after all.

\--

An idea for the second verse dawns in Louis’ brain as he’s unlocking the door to his flat after coffee. “Keys,” he mutters to himself. “Keys… broken keys…” He drops his jacket on the floor and shuts the door behind him. “Harry, give me the notebook.”

Harry passes it over, along with a pen, and Louis flops onto his couch. He turns to a fresh page and starts jotting down possible lines.

“Got something?”

“Maybe,” Louis murmurs. “Get naked so you can come over here and help me.”

“No, _you_ get naked,” Harry retorts petulantly.

Louis stares at Harry blankly until his indignant pout wilts away.

“Sorry, was that not sexy?” Harry asks, shuffling his pigeon-toed feet. “I thought it might be sexy.”

“It made me feel like I was eight years old again,” Louis replies.

“That’s not a no.”

Louis ducks his head to hide his smile. “Writing time. Get naked, please.”

“You got it, boss.”

As Harry’s pulling off his clothes and setting them into a neat pile, Louis silently rereads the new lines he’s written. Suddenly, he doesn’t understand why they sounded good to him a minute ago. “Ugh,” he groans, tossing the composition book away from him. “This is hard.”

“Let me see.”

“Harry,” Louis whines. “Why do the lyrics even matter? We’ve got our melody, and if I spend some time fiddling around on the piano, we can make it sound nice and pretty. Then we can do what every indie band does and just put a bunch of interesting-sounding words together, and boom, song. Why aren’t we doing that?”

“Louis,” Harry says, appalled. He’s got a hand clapped over his chest. “How _could_ you?”

“What?”

“We can’t have a good song without lyrics!”

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t have lyrics,” Louis replies defensively. “Just that we shouldn’t waste our time on them when they don’t really matter.”

“Lyrics are the _soul_ of the song,” Harry insists, his eyes wide. “They absolutely matter.” Louis frowns, so Harry continues. “Think of ‘You Oughta Know,’” Harry tells him.

"Should’ve pegged you for an Alanis fan,” Louis scoffs.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Everyone on the planet has made a breakup playlist with that song. Don’t act like you haven’t.”

Louis raises a challenging eyebrow. “I haven’t.”

“Fine. You’ve at least had it on repeat at one point or another.”

“Yeah, maybe. Fine, yeah, I have.”

Harry’s mouth rises in the beginnings of a smirk. “So, like, the music, right? It, like, chugs along, and it’s dark and menacing and aggressive.”

“Aggressive, sure,” Louis repeats, deadpan. “Chugs along.”

“But, like. When you listen to the words, it’s actually a very vulnerable song. The lyrics are where her heart is. If you don’t pay attention, it’s just fury, but if you really listen, you can hear that she’s airing out all of her anxieties. And it sounds like a threat, right?”

“Yeah, I can see that, I guess.”

“But,” Harry continues in his slow drawl, “it just wouldn’t be complete if you were missing one part. If it was just the melody and the instrumentation, it would be angry montage music. No soul.” Louis snorts. “And if was just the lyrics, it would just be a desperate, like, unhinged sounding poem, yeah? But when you put the two together, it’s multi-dimensional. It’s powerful.”

“It makes you want to rip someone’s balls off,” Louis murmurs.

“Exactly.”

Louis nods slowly. “Okay.”

“You know?” Harry asks.

“I… yeah, I think I see what you mean.”

“So, you see, lyrics are very important.”

“You tricked me,” Louis groans.

Harry flashes him a shit-eating grin. “Now, will you let me see what you’ve written?”

\--

Despite Louis’ initial misgivings, the second verse comes along with surprising ease. They definitely do need a bridge, and the song will probably need to be refined a lot as a whole, but that's okay for now. Herb said that it could be rough.

Louis is lounging on his bed, practicing the song with the lyrics, when the panic sets in. It is five o'clock, and there are only two hours left now.

This is it, pretty much. This is the biggest chance he's been given in years, right now. It would be so, so easy for him to mess this up.

He drops the paper and pushes his face into the pillow beside him, and lets out one big, shaky breath.

Harry's messing around on the piano in the living room, so Louis gives himself a minute or two to just breathe into this pillow and try his best not to cry. Two more hours. He has to hold it together for two more hours.

He doesn't cry. After a little bit, he sits up, slowly. When he thinks he's ready, he walks out of the room and sits down next to Harry on the bench.

"I think for now we'll just have to play it without the bridge," he says, quietly. "I don't think I can write it right now."

"Okay," Harry says easily, wrapping an arm around Louis. "We can just tell them that we're still working on it. You said they didn't expect it to be finished, right?"

Louis nods into Harry's shoulder. "They just need to hear what we have so far. We're fine."

"Good." Harry rubs Louis' arm with his huge, warm palm. "Are you nervous?"

"A bit. Aren't you?"

Harry shrugs. "I'm mostly just excited. I can't believe Union J is going to hear a song that I got to co-write with you. You know?"

Louis smiles faintly. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Hey." Harry turns away from the piano to face him. "What have you got to be nervous about, hm?"

Louis lets his breath out in a big gust. "Oh, I don't know. It's just that my chance to have a career again is kind of on the line right now."

"Oh," Harry says.

"Yeah, 'oh' is about right." Louis breathes out again. "Sorry."

Harry gathers Louis up against him, wrapping him up tightly. "We're going to do great," he says softly.

Louis wants to tell him that he doesn't know that, that he doesn't know whether or not Louis is going to fuck up spectacularly, that there is really no way of knowing if Union J will even like their song at all. He doesn't, though, just squeezes his eyes shut tight. He wants to yell all of those things, but they have about an hour and forty minutes now, and he doesn't have time to have a full-blown meltdown. An hour and forty, he thinks again, and then his breath is coming faster and faster and he can't seem to help it. His eyes feel like puddles.

Harry rubs big, warm circles on Louis' back as he starts to cry, quiet little tears at first that build and build until he's sobbing into Harry's shirt. Harry just holds him tight and shushes him gently, pressing kisses into Louis' hair.

"You don't know that we're going to do great," Louis finally croaks, in between volleys of tears.

"No, I don't," Harry tells him, brushing is hair back gently. "But I believe it."

"I don't," Louis confesses, hiding his face in Harry's chest. "I don't believe that."

"Shh," Harry tells him. "None of that, okay? You're _brilliant_. And I'm going to try my best to not fuck up, for you."

"Wasn't worried about that," Louis mumbles.

"You're brilliant," Harry whispers again. "We wrote a good song. It's going to be okay."

It's on the tip of Louis' tongue to insist, again, that Harry doesn't know that. A hopeful little voice in Louis' head reminds Louis that he doesn't know it _won't_ be okay, either. There’s at least a chance it won’t go to shit.

Harry rocks him slowly, his face pressed into Louis' neck. Bit by bit, Louis feels himself start to settle. His tears stop flowing, and when he breathes, his lungs feel a little bit bigger than they did before. Harry is warm and solid all over, and so, so tender with him. Louis takes a few more deep breaths before he raises his head to look up at Harry.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "You shouldn't have had to see that. I didn't mean to completely fall apart like that."

Harry gives him a quiet, crooked little smile. "It's okay. Happens to the best of us."

Louis lets himself accept the comfort, but tells himself that it's just this once. Just this once, because he needs to be completely okay in—shit, in an hour and ten minutes.

"I look a mess, I bet," Louis says, wiping at his eyes.

"Just a teensy bit," Harry answers wryly. “Still handsome, though.”

"Ugh." Louis drops his head back onto Harry's shoulder, which is thoroughly damp now. "Shit, and I ruined your shirt, too. Sorry."

"Don't apologize." Harry rubs at his back again, warm and comforting. "I have to go get my guitar from my flat anyways. I can change while I'm there."

"Alright. You can go do that now, if you need to. I'm fine."

Harry peers at him seriously, but Louis scoffs. "Okay, I'll be quick," he promises, pressing a chaste kiss to Louis' mouth.

"I'll try to take care of my face," Louis says, finally standing up to get a tissue.

"I know that it helps to put a cool wet cloth over your eyes for a bit. From, er, personal experience." He's giving Louis a cautious little smile, and Louis can't help the swell of fondness in him.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry says as he walks through the door, blowing Louis a kiss.

Louis refuses to pretend to catch it.

Once Harry closes the door behind him, Louis lets out a huge sigh and sinks to the floor in a frazzled heap.

\--

Louis isn't entirely sure how he gets through the next hour, but somehow, he finds himself standing next to Harry in front of his laptop, staring at an empty Skype window. Harry's holding his guitar, checking his tuning one last time, but Louis refuses to sit down at the piano. He's warmed up enough, honestly. He's probably never warmed up so much for one single song.

Louis counts his breaths as they wait. He gets to 46, 47, 48, and then Skype bubbles with a call. Louis squeaks a little.

Harry presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We're going to be great," he tells him one last time. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Louis whispers, then clears his throat and clicks answer.

There is a crowd of people staring at them on the screen. All four Union J boys (Louis thinks) and two men in suits. Louis doesn't gulp. "Hello," he says, instead, pasting on his best charming smile. "I'm Louis, and this is Harry."

"Who's he?" one of the suits asks, abruptly.

"He's my co-writer," Louis answers, practiced. "We wrote the song together and it seemed best that the two of us performed it together."

"Hi," Harry says, raising his hand in a sheepish wave.

The suit cocks his head. "We told your manager that we wanted it to be a song written by Louis Tomlinson, and only Louis Tomlinson."

Both Harry and Louis open their mouth to respond, but one of the Union J boys beats them to the punch. "We can figure out the details later, Rob," he says. He's Jaymi, Louis thinks. He's a little surprised that this Jaymi has the authority—and the balls—to speak over someone who is probably an exec at his label.

Louis likes him immediately.

"Hi, Louis and Harry," he continues. "I'm Jaymi, and these are George, Josh, and JJ." Each boy nods at them. "First of all, we want to thank you for agreeing to write a song for us. Louis, I've always been a big fan of yours, personally, and I think the boys would agree."

The other three all nod, and the one named George says, "It's really an honor." His voice is deeper than Louis would have expected. "You're one of my idols, honestly." One of the execs, the one not named Rob, crosses his arms. "I wasn't meant to say that, sorry," George continues, trying not to smile.

"We don't have much time," Not-Rob cuts in. "We should probably get to it."

"Alright," Jaymi agrees. "So, how far along have you gotten so far?"

"We have a chorus and two verses," Louis rasps and coughs quietly to get rid of the tickle in his voice. "We think it probably needs a bridge, and obviously it needs to be cleaned up a bit, but for the most part, it's all there."

Jaymi nods. "What title are you working with?"

A title. Louis had completely forgotten to think of a title. Of course they would need a title. "Erm,” he scrambles.

“‘Cobwebs Behind My Eyes,’” Harry answers smoothly, putting a reassuring hand on Louis' bicep.

Louis honestly wants to smack him, but schools his face carefully to not show his surprise.

The boys exchange looks quickly.

"I like that a lot," Josh says to his band mates. His voice is higher than Louis expected, as if he and George had traded voices, and oh god, Louis has to bite back a nervous giggle at that thought. He nods instead.

"Shall we play it for you now?" Harry asks.

"Yeah, please do," Jaymi answers.

Louis tilts the laptop to the angle that he and Harry figured out works best to show both Louis on the piano bench and Harry on the little stool next to him. He sits down and straightens himself up carefully. After taking a second for himself, Louis looks up at Harry, who quietly counts them in.

It goes alright. Harry flubs a note near the beginning (it isn't very noticeable) and Louis misses a chord or two, but nothing catastrophic. He carefully does not look at any of the Union J boys or the execs while he's singing, and instead alternates between staring at a point above his laptop screen and at Harry.

When Louis takes his fingers off the keys and the last notes are still ringing a bit, he breathes out and feels a little bit of the old feeling—that satisfaction of performing that makes him vibrate down to his toes and fills his head with light and warmth, like sunlight. He finally chances a look back at the screen.

"Thank you. We'll get back to you in—” Rob starts to say.

"Wait," Jaymi says. "Give us just a mo'."

Rob grumbles, but the boys huddle up together to have a whispered conference. Louis watches them with his heart hammering against the roof of his mouth. Before long, they turn back to the execs.

"Can we?" Josh asks.

The execs share a look.

"Is there any way we'll be able to change your mind, whatever the case?" Not-Rob asks.

"Probably not, no," Jaymi answers, beaming and unrepentant.

"Didn't think so," Not-Rob answers wryly.

Rob shakes his head in exasperation—fond exasperation, it looks like. He finally cracks a smile, and sighs. "Go ahead."

"We want it," George tells Harry and Louis in a rush. "It's brilliant, and we want it."

Louis hears a roaring in his ears, and his knees wobble for a sharp moment. "Th-thank you," he manages to get out, after swallowing. "Thank you so, so much. I'm honored.” Harry's eyes are shining at him, and he’s beaming the biggest grin Louis has ever seen on him or on any person ever. All of the air in Louis' lungs disappears.

"Unfortunately, we have to go now," Rob says, and Louis' gaze snaps back to him. "We'll email your manager all of the details right away, and we look forward to hear your final recording on Friday."

"Thank you," Louis says again, and then laughs. "I mean, yes, we’ll send it as soon as we can."

The Union J boys are still all grinning up at them and Louis' heart is beating erratically in his chest. "Thank you so much for working with us, boys," Jaymi says. "See you later."

The other three chorus out their goodbyes, and Rob and Not-Rob nod to Harry and Louis warmly, and then the screen goes back to Louis' desktop.

"Oh my god," Louis gets out, just as Harry collides with his side, guitar set down on the ground.

"You did it," Harry murmurs, kissing all over Louis' face. "You did it!"

"We did it, you great big oaf," Louis says fiercely, throwing his arms around Harry's middle.

Harry's smile gets, if possible, even larger, and he squeezes Louis tighter. "I can't believe it," he whispers.

"Me neither," Louis breathes, touching Harry's pulse point and feeling how hard his heart is racing. "Wow."

Harry giggles against Louis' mouth. "They loved it. I told you so."

"Shut up.” Harry presses more kisses to his forehead and eyebrows. "Hey, come back down here."

Harry wraps his arms around Louis, one across the small of his back and one just under his bum, and lifts him off the ground, making Louis squeak. "How about you come up here?" he murmurs, and then kisses Louis' mouth, hard.

If this were a normal situation, Louis would be indignant about being picked up and moved around without his say-so, but at this moment it only makes his breath hitch. He kisses Harry back just as hard, their tongues tangling messily, with his hands fisting in Harry's hair and his legs wound around Harry's thighs.

Louis shifts around, bracing his hands on Harry's shoulders and shuffling his legs up until Harry has to tilt his head back to kiss him, and wraps his legs tight around Harry's waist.

Harry lets out a low growl. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"Maybe," Louis whispers and bends down to kiss Harry some more, gripping him by the jaw with both hands.

"I'm taking you to the bedroom," Harry informs him.

"You better.” He's half-afraid that Harry, with all of his gangly limbs, is going to drop him on the way there, but he doesn't. He does stumble on the way to the bed and sets Louis down a bit harder than he probably intended, but Louis isn't fussed.

When Harry doesn't immediately climb on top of him, Louis grabs at his wrist and tugs. "Shh," Harry tells him, and pops the button of Louis' trousers to drag them down his legs along with his pants. Louis tears his shirt over his head before Harry can get to it, and starts pulling at Harry's clothes.

"Is someone impatient?" Harry smirks at him, stepping back.

"Harold," Louis warns.

"Not my name," Harry singsongs, pulling off his socks one by one.

" _Harold_ ," Louis warns again, louder.

"Yes, darling?"

"Come here and fuck me, now."

Harry doesn't speed up his motions, sliding his jeans down at a leisurely pace, but a shudder passes through his body. "I'm getting there."

"I'm getting _old_ ," Louis snaps.

Harry's laughing under his breath, and Louis wants to kill him. Well, he wants to fuck him, mostly, but he also wants to kill him.

At last, Harry drops his clothes on the floor and settles over Louis, skin to skin. Perfect.

Louis wraps his arms and legs around him tight and immediately starts sucking the skin just under his collarbone. He doesn't stop until the beginnings of a very deep bruise are blooming, and Harry is shivering above him.

"Do you always do things a million miles an hour?" Harry says into the top of his head, pressing kisses on his forehead.

"No time like the present, is there?" Louis responds, running his hands down Harry's sides, tracing his muscles. "Are you one of those that likes to have slow, meaningful, sloth sex?"

"Sloth sex? Do sloths have sex particularly slowly?"

"They must." Louis's hands slip to Harry's bum. "They're sloths."

"Rather not think about sloths right now, if it's all the same to you."

"Okay, then if you could, would you please do some—“

It is very satisfying, at that moment, when Harry cuts Louis off with a kiss. He doesn't let Louis turn it frantic and fast, but keeps it slow and deep like he wants. He rolls his body against Louis, gentle and sure, and after a while, Louis just settles into it.

When Harry pulls back, he has this steady, intent look on his face, as though he’d very much like to consume Louis whole.

"Hi," Harry whispers into his mouth.

"Hi," Louis returns, heart in his throat.

Harry reaches down and wraps a hand around Louis' dick, loosely.

"I need more than that.”

“Shh.” Louis is starting to get indignant at being shushed so many times, honestly. Harry presses soft kisses all down Louis’ throat and gently hitches Louis’ leg up with a hand clasping the back of his knee. His hand moves from Louis’ dick down, until he’s rubbing one dry finger against Louis’ hole. “Can I?”

“If you don’t, I might die,” Louis grits out, and Harry laughs quietly before shushing him again.

No matter how much Louis pushes him, no matter how much he rocks his hips as Harry fingers him, Harry won’t give up control of the pace. He just presses his fingers all the way into Louis, sure and firm, and moves along with Louis so that he can't get the hard, fast friction that he wants. He keeps his eyes on Louis' face, smiling softly and unbothered. His other hand stays in the crease of Louis' knee, where his fingers trace gentle circles on sensitive skin. After a few minutes, Louis gives up and just collapses down against the mattress.

Harry eventually works up to three fingers, working them in leisurely little circles. Louis cannot locate his voice. He is always very vocal in bed, but now, with Harry staring down at him, so tantalizing and giving him not nearly enough, he just can't. There are words and thoughts floating three feet away from his head, just out of reach.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of agony for Louis, Harry rolls a condom over his dick and shuffles up the mattress to rest between Louis' thighs. He slides in as measured and steady as he's been this whole time, and lifts one of Louis' legs to curl around his waist, and uses his grip on Louis' knee to press his other leg against his torso. Louis' hands automatically curl into Harry’s hair as he leans down to press a kiss to Louis' temple.

Harry doesn't so much thrust into Louis as he does roll into him, unhurried.

Through the haze in his mind, Louis is gratified to see just how much Harry is undone by this, too. His curls are hanging over his flushed red face, and his eyes are wide and glassy. He looks awed, honestly, and so intent.

Imperceptibly, Harry's pace begins to build, and the continuous drag of his stomach against Louis' dick is unbearable. Louis' eyes drift close. He focuses on the puffs of air Harry is letting out above him, instead. Harry wraps around his dick and it doesn’t take long.

When Louis finally comes, it feels like he's climbed to the top of a very tall cliff and jumped straight off it, free falling. As he starts to settle back into himself, he hears Harry breathe out his name and stutter in his rhythm, and then he comes.

For a long few moments, neither of them moves, aside from Louis' hands unconsciously rubbing against Harry's scalp.

"Shit," Harry sighs, breathing hard, "shit."

"Yeah," Louis croaks.

Harry pulls away to get rid of the condom, and Louis lets out an involuntary whimper at the loss of contact.

"Shh," Harry tells him, again. "I'm coming right back."

He does, and he brings a washcloth with him. Very gently, he cleans up the come on Louis' stomach, wipes the sweat off his forehead and the nape of his neck, and drops the washcloth off the side of the bed with a wet splat.

Louis lets out a helpless, wrecked little giggle. "Hi," he says.

"Hi," Harry whispers back, and presses a sweet, close-mouthed kiss to Louis' lips.

Louis can feel words struggling to get out, make their way across his sluggish tongue and out into the air between them, but they don't make it past his mouth. "Sleep?" he says instead.

"Sure, pop star," Harry replies, and settles down with his arm around Louis' waist, his head rested on Louis' chest.

"Disgraced former—“

"No," Harry cuts him off softly. "Not tonight."

Louis goes quiet at that. He's still searching for a way to respond by the time he drifts asleep.

\--

Louis wakes up when the sky is still dark outside the window. His right side is colder than it was when he fell asleep, and he's not sure why that is, so he swings his arm out without looking.

"Ow," Harry says mildly, when Louis' hand connects with his back.

Louis turns over and squints at him. Harry's sitting up, away from Louis, with his phone lit up in his hand. In the low light, Louis can see Harry giving him a small, lopsided little smile. "Why are you awake?" he grumbles. "It's arse o'clock."

"You smacked me about half an hour ago," Harry says, just as mildly as before. "Then as I was just about to fall asleep, I came up with a few lines for the bridge. I'm typing them up so I don't forget."

"You're the best," Louis mumbles into his pillow. "But if you don't fucking turn off your phone and lay down, I'm kicking you out of my flat."

"Will you?" Harry asks. He sounds too amused, Louis thinks. He should be scared.

"You should be scared," Louis informs him. "I'll do it."

"Bet you wouldn't," Harry murmurs as he curls around Louis' back again.

"I would," Louis insists, but falls asleep before he can argue further.

When Louis wakes up again, it's to the smell of tea.

"You're spoiling me," Louis complains before he even opens his eyes. He can tell Harry is in the room—something about the air, he thinks.

"It's very bad for you," Harry agrees.

Louis lets out a yawn as he sits up, blinking the crust out of his eyes. "I'm serious. I'm going to become accustomed to waking up to nourishment every morning if you keep this up."

That sounded kind of like—something. Louis bites his lip and doesn't make eye contact as he accepts the steaming cup from Harry.

"That wouldn't be so bad," Harry mutters, then quickly says, "Would you like to see the bridge I came up with?"

"Yeah," Louis replies, taking a fortifying sip of tea.

"I don't think it's done," Harry says, pulling out his phone and opening it up to a note. "Needs a line or two more, maybe." He hands Louis the phone so he can read the three lines typed there.

_It's dark and stormy in here_  
 _But when I see you in the night  
_ _You glow like the sun_

As soon as Louis reads the last word, he knows what needs to come next. He swallows hard, because it frightens him a little. Maybe more than a little. But it's still early morning and Harry's sitting next to him, still sleep-soft and slow, and right now, the shadows are more forgiving than usual.

So he types,

_I'll exhale the dust to breathe in the light._

Then he wordlessly passes the phone over to Harry.

"Oh," Harry breathes, then after a moment, turns to look at Louis. "I mean, it's perfect. God. Wow." He runs his hand through his rumpled hair. "Yeah, yeah, let's use this."

Louis forces his tone to stay light. "Good. Think we're done, then?"

"I mean, yeah." Harry shrugs. "I think that was the last piece."

Louis nods, because he had the same thought just as soon as the line came into his head. "That's good. We can start recording soon, then. After we eat."

"I was going to make some—”

"No," Louis says, holding up a finger to cut Harry off. "I'm taking you out to brunch somewhere nice, and I'm treating you."

Harry starts shaking his head before Louis even finishes his sentence. "That's not necessary."

"It's 100% necessary. We’re celebrating," Louis informs him, standing up. "Do we need to stop back at yours for you to get something to wear?"

Harry still looks like he wants to protest, so Louis bends over to pick up Harry's clothes from their puddle on the floor. When he straightens up and looks over his shoulder, Harry's eyes are, predictably, fixed on Louis' bum.

"These will work, if you don't mind wearing them again." Louis drops the dark wash jeans and v-neck onto the bed in front of Harry. "It's not going to be fancy, really. Just, you know. Nice."

Harry shakes his head. "Do you ever not get what you want?"

Louis laughs, almost derisive. "Not really, no."

\--

Brunch goes much more quickly than Louis would like it to, and so does recording. It's amazing, really, because recording is tedious no matter who he does it with, whether he does it in a proper studio or in his own flat, and no matter what time he does it. With Harry, though, it doesn't go on nearly as long as he had hoped.

Louis re-records a few parts that aren't exactly perfect, then twiddles around with the demo, but at a certain point, there's nothing more he can do with the equipment he has in his flat. They're done. After this four-day adventure, all that's left is to send the file off and wait for the Union J boys (or, more likely, the Union J boys' people) to get back to them.

After four days together, there is no reason for them to be together still.

Louis saves the file one last time and straightens up in his seat to look at Harry beside him. "Well," he says. "That's that."

Harry's rubbing the back of his neck, fluffing up the curls there. "Yeah, I guess so."

"So," Louis says. "Erm."

"I should probably get going," Harry says, reluctance clear in his voice.

Personally, Louis would like Harry to stay for a while longer. It's still mid-afternoon. He'd like Harry to stay until dinner, and until the morning, and for breakfast after that. He doesn't really want Harry to go at all, is the thing.

"Yeah," Louis says. "You're probably right."

Harry bobs his head, and then after a long pause, stands up. This is the most awkward Louis has felt since—well, since Liam saw him naked the other day, actually.

Louis stands up as Harry's collecting his things, and in his mind, he's scrambling a bit. How does he ask Harry to second date if he they haven't properly had a first date? It might be a bit simpler if Louis wasn't inept at dating normally, but he just doesn't know the right way to say, _hey, I've spent far more time with you than I can stomach to be around most other people, and I'm not excited about the idea of you leaving so soon, so how about you come back tomorrow? Or in an hour? Or just stay, actually?_

Louis closes his mouth and gulps. "Thank you, again."

"It was my pleasure," Harry says sincerely, turning to Louis. "I should be thanking you, really. I've never—I've never quite had an experience that." His lips tilt up a little bit on one side. "Doubt I ever will again."

"Shh, you," Louis says.

Harry shrugs. "I mean it. I'm so grateful to you."

"Don't be," Louis replies, but he blushes a bit. "You saved my arse."

Harry shrugs again, his smile growing. "Well."

Suddenly, Louis is struck by an idea. "I've just remembered—Herb told me that they're planning on announcing their new single on a twitcam on Monday." He rocks onto his toes. "I was thinking, maybe, we could meet up and watch it together? Maybe get some lunch before or after?"

Harry nods, and he seems relieved. "Yeah, yeah, that sounds good."

Louis smiles back. "Good. I'll see you then, yeah."

"Yeah." Louis is a bit nervous about how to say goodbye at the door—is a kiss appropriate? A handshake? It really has been too long—but Harry pulls him right in by the waist and kisses him gently, lingering, before opening the door. Suddenly, Louis feels really, very dumb.

Everything about this thing with Harry, from meeting him, to deciding to write a song with him, to this moment, has been unplanned. There aren't set rules here, with Harry. It's been so long since he's even worried about something like that, and this whole thing with Harry so far has been so easy, so natural. Why should he start worrying now?

Louis leans up to give Harry one last peck on the lips before he ducks out. "I'll see you," he repeats, and tells himself not to feel dumb about it.

"Can't wait," Harry breathes, and finally shuts the door behind him. Louis flops over his sofa, hands covering the beaming grin splitting his face.

\--

Louis wakes up at eight on Saturday morning and frowns at the ceiling for a good ten minutes, trying to figure out what to do with his day.

There are only two people he'd like to see, really. Aiden is off on tour, though Louis does send him a text, because he suddenly realizes it's been ages since they've spoken at all. The other person is Harry, but Louis only said goodbye to Harry about 15 hours ago, so.

He could call Herb and see if he wants to spend some time with him separate from work. It's the weekend, though, and Louis knows that Herb usually spends the weekends doing family stuff. He doesn't want to intrude on that.

Louis finally stands and stretches thoroughly, leaning forward to touch his toes and then straightening up to stretch his arms. It's been a while since he's gone to the gym, he remembers, and he always feels good after a workout, so he finds himself slipping into basketball shorts and a ratty tee. He takes a banana for breakfast and walks to the gym a few blocks away, wondering absently if it's the gym Harry goes to, too.

He spends a good two hours at the gym, running on a treadmill and lifting some weights, but after that, it's still only 11. He makes himself a sandwich for lunch and frowns as he eats it. For the life of him, he can't remember what he did at daytime before the past week. He went on walks a lot. He took a lot of naps, ate lunch out, and went clubbing. He doesn't think those things could have actually filled his days, though.

As he walks back to his bedroom to try napping, he passes the piano and pauses. He traces his fingers lightly over the edges of the lacquered wood, and then sits down at the bench. When he puts his bare foot over the pedals, something catches under his heel—a discarded scrap of notebook paper, one of his and Harry's brainstorming pages. Louis reads over the few words that are still visible under heavy crossing-out and scribbles, before balling the paper up and tossing it behind him.

He starts by playing some songs he remembers from when he was first learning piano. After a certain point, he has to make up the parts that he doesn't remember, and then the song morphs into another song that he remembers, then again into another song, until he finds himself just noodling around. It's mindless, and it's simple. At some point, he plays a run that makes him stop and tilt his head, then tries to recreate it. He finds it, and then plays it a few more times, tweaking it a bit, until it sounds airy and perfect. Without looking, he reaches to the side for a pen and notebook—but he hasn't kept a pen and notebook by his piano for a while, now. Instead, he takes the balled up paper from the ground, smoothes it out and flips it to the backside. There's a pencil on the ground by the sofa, and he uses that to scribble out the run he has.

Four hours later, the run is a whole song. He's got the composition book he and Harry used for lyrics spread out over his knees, and there are now several sheets covered with music. There aren't any lyrics, and there isn't any other instrumentation, but it is undeniably a song. With the last notes ringing through his flat, Louis blinks down at his composition book, flipping through the pages he's covered. He tucks the pen into the spine and sets the book down, finally. It feels a bit like he’s coming out of a trance, like he’s suddenly become aware of his own body again. His shoulders are stiff from bending over the keys and his stomach suddenly pinches tight with hunger, so he stretches out and goes to get a snack.

He retrieves his phone from the table after peeling another of the bananas from the bunch Harry left behind the other day. He has a few emails, one that has some details and technical questions from Herb, such as, _What is Harry’s full name?_ Louis realizes with a start that he doesn’t actually know.

 _An inquiring mind wants to know,_ he types a text to Harry, _what’s your last name?_

After he sends it, he opens a text from an unrecognized number, sent about half an hour ago:

_Hey louis, it's jaymi (from union j)! Thx again for everything. We just got back into the country, and I was wondering if you and me could go for lunch tomorrow??_

There's a second text after that, that says,

_(Not a date I'm engaged! Lol just to clarify)_

Louis smiles and rolls his eyes deeply. As if anyone in Britain didn't know that Jaymi from Union J was engaged. To a commoner, even.

Harry texts him as he’s replying to confirm yes, he would like to go to lunch with Jaymi.

_Er, it’s Styles. Can I ask why the inquiring mind wants to know?_

Louis stifles a giggle. _Legal stuff . We have to sign a contract for the song, so Herb needs yr legal name . Not gonna internet stalk you or anything !_

_Oh, I was worried!! Haha, it’s Harry Edward Styles, not Harold .x_

Jesus Christ, _Harry Styles_. He was born to be a rock star, Louis thinks as he shakes his head.

Also, his name is basically the word hairstyle, Louis realizes with a snort.

_That’s not gonna stop me from calling you Harold x_

_I don’t mind it from you :)_

Louis’ heart flutters, just a little. He bites his lip as he types out _Missed you today_ , then erases it, then retypes it, then erases it, then retypes it again and finally sends it.

It takes Harry a few minutes to reply, during which Louis swears at himself for coming off too clingy. _Missed you too_ , Harry replies. _Couldn’t stop thinking about you .x_

Louis kicks his feet a little, and lets a grin spread over his face. _Likewise, can’t wait til Monday ._

_Me neither :)_

Louis turns his phone off and sits back down behind the piano so he can press his face to the fallboard and just grin.

\--

Jaymi is somehow everything Louis would have expected him to be. He arrives slightly late, in a cloud of apologies, and his voice is just a bit too loud (but pleasantly). He makes faces when he talks, and he talks a lot, and. And he reminds Louis of himself when he was younger, a bit. Louis can tell from the first two minutes they're together that they’re going to get on well.

He meets Louis at a comfortable little bistro, where they take a booth way in the back. It’s Jaymi’s choice, probably to lower the chances that somebody will spot them, snap a picture for _The Daily Mail_ to feature it in a lurid story about how Gay Pop Darling Jaymi Hensley is cheating on his lovely fiancé.

Once they order and hand their menus over to their waitress, Louis feels a palpable kind of hesitance in the air between them, and he doesn't quite know what to say.

"How's recording going?" he finally settles on.

Jaymi nods. "It's going well. We're going to be on time, and all. Of course, we'll let you hear the final version before it gets released," he rushes to say.

"I'm not worried about that," Louis says with a little laugh. "It's yours now. Do your magic with it, and it'll be perfect."

"I don't know about that," Jaymi says with a grin. "Started off pretty perfect, you know?"

Louis scoffs. "Please, stop flattering me. The parts that Harry did were perfect, maybe."

Jaymi's eyes soften a little bit at that, strangely. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, but you two are really good together. You know."

"Stroke of luck, really." Louis shrugs. "I would have been fucked if he didn’t write it with me, if I'm honest."

"No, I mean, like, you're good as a couple."

A wave of cold passes through Louis' stomach. "Erm. We're. We're not dating."

Jaymi's eyes widen comically. "Oh! I'm so sorry! I just assumed—well, I shouldn't have assumed. But you two seemed really comfortable together, is all. Sorry." He smiles ruefully.

"It's fine," Louis says, voice a little high. He clears his throat. "I can see how you would get that impression, but no."

Jaymi gives him a little sideways look at that, and Louis can tell that he's dying to ask. Louis isn't sure he wants to answer, but he sighs and gestures a little _go on, then_. "So you're not dating, but..."

Louis would normally do anything else before talking about his personal life, especially with a stranger. He's felt so off-kilter for so many days now, that now somehow he does want to explain, to somebody other than himself, to get it out of his own head, maybe. So he inhales a deep breath and asks carefully, "Do you really want the details?"

"Obviously," Jaymi answers, taking a bite of his pasta.

"Well, alright. I met him a couple of weeks ago in a club, and took him home, and I meant to call but—“ Jaymi raises his eyebrows, still chewing. "Okay, so I kind of didn't mean to call. But I ran into him again when I was trying to write that damn song for you. Well, a lot of things happened, and we ended up writing it together. We spent, like, four days together continuously."

"And you fell for him," Jaymi finishes.

"I don't know about that," Louis replies, alarmed.

Jaymi scoffs. "From what I saw? You did."

Louis shrugs, feels a blush creep up his cheeks. He could stop, talk about something else now, but now that it’s coming out, he can’t seem to make it stop. "I, yeah. It was weird not being around him yesterday. It's still a bit weird today, if I'm honest."

Jaymi finishes chewing, mostly, then covers his mouth to ask, "Did you write that song about him?"

"No!" Louis says immediately, but then thinks. "Alright, not at first. But, by the end, yeah. Is it that obvious?"

"Well." Jaymi makes a so-so gesture with his hand. "Yeah, more or less."

"Fuck," Louis says quietly.

"If it helps, he seemed about as gone as you did."

Louis shrugs. "He's sweet."

"I mean it," Jaymi says, shaking his head. "'S why I thought you were together."

Louis puts his hand over his face and lets out a groan. "You're probably a huge gossip, aren't you? Shit."

Jaymi grins big and unrepentant. "A bit, yeah. Sorry. I have to know these things. It's a compulsion."

Louis rolls his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I'm too old for this. I'm a grown man, and I'm talking about boys with a bigmouth."

"Hey," Jaymi says, suddenly serious. "You can trust me with this, you know."

Louis does know. He wouldn't have said any of this if he didn't immediately get that sense from Jaymi, that he would be trustworthy. Still. "Yeah."

Jaymi gives him a small, private little smile, and then smoothly changes the topic. Louis is grateful for it.

An hour later, they finish dessert and ask for their check.

"Erm, before we go, I wanted to say something." Jaymi wipes his mouth carefully. "I don't want to be cheesy about this, because I know that you've probably heard this from a lot of people, but... Thank you. What you did, back then, was so important to me as a teenager." He makes steady eye contact with Louis before he continues. "It meant a lot and, honestly, I don't know if I could have been where I am now if I hadn't had someone like you to look up to. I wouldn’t have tried to be in a boy band at all, I don’t think."

Warmth blooms in Louis’ chest, and he has to swallow a couple times before he can speak. "Thank you for saying that. I don't know how I could have been much of a role model, considering the way I handled things, but thank you."

"What do you mean, considering the way you handled things?" Jaymi raises an eyebrow. "Most people would have hid in a cave if that happened to them. I would have." He shrugs, looking down again. "The fact that you kept making music, and that you did interviews to talk about it—I've always admired that."

Louis smiles sheepishly. "As shit as that album was?"

Jaymi hesitates. "It was pretty shit, yeah," he says with a little laugh, and Louis' smile widens. "Still took balls."

"Thank you," Louis tells him, quiet. "This makes me feel a little bit better about it all, you know."

"I'm glad." Jaymi nods, and then rolls his eyes. "Though that definitely was cheesy, sorry. My fiancé told me it was going to be cheesy, shit."

Louis snorts at that, and the mood is broken. They pay and Jaymi gives Louis a big, warm hug before they leave. He whispers, "Good luck with Harry," into Louis' ear, and then he’s gone.

As he's driving back to his flat, Louis can't quite wipe the grin off his face. 

\--

Tyler outed Louis four days after Touch broke up. Louis still remembers exactly how it felt to wake up at five in the morning to a call from Herb. He was on the road on his way to Doncaster within half an hour, before most of the city had woken up, before most people had a chance to see the headlines plastered all over the newsstands. Before the radio DJs got a chance to discuss it, probably, though Louis didn't bother flicking on the radio to check.

It was bad. Well, it had been bad enough the week before, when Touch had called it quits after five years. At that point, the four of them could hardly sit in the same space for ten minutes without an argument breaking out. Losing his band had been bad enough, but Louis thought it would be better in the end. He'd already started writing some songs on his own, figured that it was somewhere to begin. He made sure he got rid of those songs before he left for his mum's. He tore the pages into pieces and flushed the confetti of them down the toilet before turning off all the lights and locking the doors and windows.

He'd spent a month at home before he realized that it wasn't going to end, no matter how long he waited. So he drove back to London and tried to act as though this was all according to plan. He had known that he would come out one day, and he’d wanted to—not at this moment, and not in this way, but somehow. When he started speaking to the media again, he made big blustery statements about equality and courage, and did his best to limit his time online. He tried not to look at what other people were saying, but he heard plenty. It was only slightly gratifying to hear that Tyler had fallen out of public favor for outing him. It had been more gratifying one year later when Tyler's solo album tanked spectacularly, worse even than Kevin Federline's.

The only member of Touch that Louis has spoken to since then is Aiden. He was a little surprised that Connor never reached out to him, because he thought he and Connor were at least friends. It makes sense, though. In all of the band's arguments, Connor tried his best not to get involved, and not to bring it up after.

Aiden had been wonderful, though. He had come to visit Louis the day he got back into London, and he seemed to know as soon as he walked into his flat that he shouldn't bring it up at all. They ate take away and played FIFA like everything was normal, and Aiden stayed over like he would have before things got bad. Just knowing that Aiden was there on his couch helped Louis sleep better than he had all month.

After a few months of avoiding music entirely, Louis sat down at his piano again. Before, he'd enjoyed writing. He didn't think he was very good at it, but it had always felt nice. He'd loved performing because it made him feel like his skin was buzzing, like his organs were going to pop out and float right off, but writing a song was quieter, an internal joy. It made him feel like his lungs were bigger, like the sun was shining in his stomach. Performing made him shake with elation, but writing steadied him. That was before, though.

As hard as he tried, no matter what tactic he used, he couldn't write the way that he used to. His mind never cleared when he wrote, not anymore. He tried to power through it and keep writing, but he didn't _love_ anything he made. He could have made an album of songs written by other people, like he always had with the band, but for some reason the thought was unappealing. It would feel too much like he was making a new Touch album.

Herb, bless him, found a team of songwriters and producers to help him polish the material, and it did help. Louis still didn't want to release the album, but the idea of throwing it away after so much work felt like defeat, so he released it anyway. It did better than Tyler's, at least.

After that album and the short tour after it, Louis suddenly found himself with nothing to do. He was no longer interesting enough to make appearances on talk shows. He didn't want to write. He had enough money that he didn't need to earn more, so he decided to do nothing. After a while, he stopped counting time in months and years since the day he got that phone call. It didn't stop hurting, but it stopped hurting constantly. And he was fine.

Tonight, though, it doesn't seem like fine is enough. Jaymi's words ring in his head for hours, and Louis still can't puzzle them out. "Hiding in a cave" seems like the perfect description for the way he reacted to being outed. He probably would have stayed there, up in Doncaster, if he could have.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he knows that he wouldn't have. He didn't have any other option but to go back to London. People recognized him there, but people in any part of the world would have recognized him. London was home, and being in London at least made him feel like he wasn't running away.

Jaymi said he admired Louis, though, said that having Louis be a famous gay boybander had helped him. And that's something, definitely.

When Louis is showering later that night, he suddenly remembers a shoebox that he has in the back of one of his drawers. He goes to get it as soon as he steps out, still wearing only a towel around his waist, dripping lightly onto the floor.

He kept some of the letters that he received afterwards, some of the positive ones. When he read them back then, they didn't really mean anything to him. Because while the majority of fans and celebrity media was treating him as a spectacle, there was another group that treated him like a poster boy. At the time, it felt like the same thing.

Louis reads those letters now, careful not to get them damp. Almost all of them are stories, variations on a single theme, and all of them, all of them, are grateful. Grateful to him because he didn't run away, grateful because he wasn't ashamed.

By the time Louis has read all the letters in the box, his hair is completely dry and it's late. He carefully puts them all away, sets the box on his nightstand, and heads over to his piano.

His composition book is still on the floor with the pencil stuck in the spine, and there's a handful of blank pages left at the back. Louis sits down at the bench and, without stopping to think for even a moment, writes.

What comes out isn't polished, and it doesn't have a clever rhyming scheme. It isn't angry. It isn't a gay pride anthem, like what he tried to on his album. Louis realizes as he's writing the last verse that it's about the day he decided to come back to London.

As soon as he finishes the lyrics, Louis sets down the pencil and turns to the piano keys. He finds a simple, peaceful-sounding chord progression and fiddles with it a bit, until it sounds like how he feels. After he sings the words over it a couple times, he grabs his laptop.

He records it quickly, not bothering to separate the vocals from the piano. When everything's done, he listens to the track once, twice, three times. Then he deletes the file.

After a few minutes of staring at his computer screen, he opens his trash folder and restores the file. He saves it in a folder buried in his documents where he won't see it.

\--

On Monday, Harry comes to Louis' flat a few hours before Union J’s twitcam and they share Indian takeaway wrapped up together on Louis’ couch. It all feels very familiar and cozy, and Louis doesn't dwell much on how warm his chest feels as Harry's telling Louis endless bad jokes, trying to make him laugh (and failing over and over and over again).

"Who taught you all of these," Louis snorts, "a five year old?"

"Yeah, actually," Harry answers with a shameless grin, leaning over to steal a bit of paneer from Louis’ plate. "One of my mate's kids."

"I'm sorry to say, none of them are very funny," Louis tells him, aiming a pinch at his side in retaliation for the paneer.

Harry gives him a comically affronted look. He's got a bit of tomato on his nose.

Louis leans forward to lick it off, and hears Harry’s breath hitch quietly. "I think maybe I'm just not your target audience here, babe."

"Why did the chicken cross the playground?" Harry asks, determined.

"Why?"

"To get to the other slide."

Louis groans. "Nope, still not laughing."

"One last one," Harry says. "I saved the best for last, I swear."

"Alright," Louis says.

"Have you heard about that film called _Constipation_?"

"No."

"Well, it hasn't come out yet."

Louis doesn't know if it's the joke itself or the expectantly smug look on Harry's face, but a guffaw punches out of him at last.

Harry raises his fists above his head and lets out a screech of victory. Louis laughs harder.

"Okay, you got me," he says, "That one was good." He sets his plate aside and curls into Harry's chest as Harry continues to shout chimpanzee noises at the ceiling.

"Made Louis laugh," Harry cheers, settling his arms around Louis' shoulders. "I'm putting that on my calendar for sure."

"As you should," Louis tells him. "It's a pretty rare accomplishment."

"I'm pretty sure you laughed at me when I stumbled over your abandoned sock the other day."

Louis lets out a giggle at the memory. "You almost face-planted onto the carpet."

"Yeah, well. Rather have you laugh at my wit, not my clumsiness."

"Mm," Louis hums, closing his eyes drowsily. He feels a food coma coming on. "You're witty. For a five year old."

Harry flicks his ear.

"Let's take a nap," Louis suggests, not really allowing Harry much input as he guides Harry to lay down and rests his head on Harry's chest.

"Okay," Harry rumbles, and Louis drifts.

He's woken up what feels like not very long later by Harry poking his cheek and shaking his shoulder.

"'M up," Louis mumbles, swatting Harry's pokey finger away.

"You snore very cutely," Harry says with a dimply little smile. "Like a baby woodland animal."

"Shush." Louis sits up and stretches his hands above his head. "Is it time?"

"Ten minutes to three."

They open up Louis' laptop and set it on both of their thighs, waiting, and watching the view count climb before the twitcam even starts. It gets to over one hundred thousand with just a minute to go.

"Wow," Harry murmurs. "That's like the population of a small country."

"They're Union J," Louis says with a shrug, and Harry nods.

The screen lights up with the four boys a moment later, and Harry drapes his arm across Louis's shoulders for him to snuggle in.

"Why is George in a monkey onesie?" Harry asks as the band greets their small country of a fan base.

"No idea."

"He's even got ears."

"Maybe he's a fetishist." Louis shrugs. "Good on him for being so open about it."

It takes a few minutes of answering fan questions and play-wrestling before they get to their announcement.

"Alright, alright, now that we've settled down," Jaymi says, as the others stop tickling George and George's giggles wind down. "So, as you already know, we have an album coming out soon. We now have a title for our first single. Drumroll please,” he orders, and his three band mates obediently beat their hands on their thighs. “It’ll be called ‘Cobwebs Behind My Eyes.’” The other three cheer and whoop.

“There have been a lot of rumors about this single,” Josh says once everyone’s settled back down. “And we are happy to confirm that we did have guest writers, the lovely Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles.”

Harry suddenly stiffens up beside Louis, and his fingers stop drawing circles on Louis' shoulder. Louis peeks up at him. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Harry says. It's a lie. His face has gone very pale. "I'm fine." Jaymi is still talking, giving more details about the single, and Harry stares intently at the screen as if he's listening.

"What's happened? Did he say your name wrong?"

"No," Harry says, and then gulps. "He said it exactly right. Erm. I should go, now."

"What?"

"Yeah, I—“ Harry extracts his arm from around Louis and takes the laptop off their laps, setting it on the floor. "I need to go," he says again, standing up.

Louis stands too and follows Harry to the door feeling utterly bewildered. "Have I done something?" he asks as Harry puts on his coat.

"No," Harry says, finally turning to look at him, wide-eyed. "Not at all. It's just." He waves his hands, as if trying to pull a word out of thin air. He doesn't seem to catch one. "I'm sorry. I just have to go, right now. Thank you, Louis," he says, taking one of Louis' hands and meeting his eyes very seriously. "Thank you for everything."

Louis furrows his eyebrows. "Is this your way of telling me I shouldn't call?"

"It's not—no. Well. You probably won't want to call," Harry says, nervously pushing his hair back from his face.

"Harry, what—“

Harry cuts him off with a kiss, one that's sudden and desperate. Just as suddenly, he pulls back and opens the door. "I'm sorry," he says again, and all but sprints away from the door.

Louis stares after him as if his feet are glued to the floor.

\--

Louis calls Harry the next morning, though he had resolved to give Harry space. Harry doesn't pick up.

Two hours later, after a lot of pacing and making himself tea and then not drinking it, Louis sends a text. Harry doesn't respond.

By noon, Louis is about to tear his hair out. He calls again.

No answer.

He replays what happened the day before over and over, and it makes less sense every time. Harry was cheerful and affectionate one moment, and then the next minute he was, literally, running away from Louis. He even watches the archived twitcam a few times through, but there aren’t any clues there, either.

Louis lies on the floor with his hands covering his face. There are no clocks in his flat, but he swears he hears one ticking away, marking every single minute that Harry is ignoring him. Louis takes a deep breath and feels slightly ridiculous, so he turns off his phone off and stuffs it at the back of his kitchen cabinet, where it can't taunt him.

He forces himself to go on a walk, to go down to the park and hold the newspaper in front of his face. He can't make himself read it, so he stares at the pages for as long as he can. Slowly, he flips all the way through it, and then tries to walk home. By the time he's three blocks away he starts jogging, and by the time he's at the steps he's sprinting. He dashes through the door and tears his cabinet open, willing his phone to turn on faster.

There are no new messages.

Louis calls again, and it rings through to the voice mail. He leaves a message that almost definitely makes him sound like a nutter, and then hangs up and slumps to the ground.

He spends the rest of the day desperately trying to find some kind of distraction from the stream of _HarryHarryHarry_ in his mind. Nothing works for very long. At 11, he takes a sleeping pill because he knows he'll just lie awake until the sun rises otherwise.

The next day goes much the same, be he restricts him to one call in the morning. He can't stop himself from sending a text in the evening. At this point, he doesn't expect a response anymore, so he sets his phone on the floor and slumps down onto the couch in an exhausted heap.

He practically flies into the air when his phone buzzes.

It's a text from Harry. Louis opens it with shaking fingers.

_Hey this is zayn. Harry went home on monday and left his phone on the nightstand sorry!_

Louis' disappointment is thick and bitter-tasting in his mouth. _Why has he gone home ?_ he texts back.

_Dunno. We didnt even know he was there until liam called his mum and she said he was safe up at home. Wouldnt say anything else just said he needed to be alone and didnt want to talk_

Louis sighs. In a frenzy the day before, he started wondering if Harry hadn't been answering because something terrible had happened to him. It wasn't his most reasonable thought, but considering the other things he'd thought that day, it definitely wasn't the most outlandish.

 _Was he angry with me ?_ Louis types. _He ran out on me monday night and ive no idea why_

_What were you doing?_

_Nothing , we were just watching union j's twitcam announcing the single we wrote_

_WHAT????_

Before Louis can type a response, his phone buzzes with a new text. _Can you come over to Harry and Liam's right now? All three of us are here. We need to talk._

By "all three of us," Louis assumes that Zayn means himself, Liam, and that boy at the sandwich shop—Niall, was it? He doesn't really think about it, just sends a quick _yeah, on my way now_ , and puts his jacket on.

When Niall opens the door at Louis’ knock, he can tell immediately that they've all been there for a while. Liam and another boy are sitting on the couch, curled together, their faces pinched with worry. Niall sits down on the floor next to the couch, not making eye contact. None of them look like they've slept at all.

"Hello," Louis says weakly.

"I'm Zayn," the boy with Liam says, standing up to grip Louis' hand for a quick shake. He doesn't sit back down. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Louis says, fidgeting a bit. He feels uncomfortable, suddenly, surrounded by Harry's very closest friends. Like he's intruding. "I'm not sure how much use I'll be, to be honest."

Zayn looks straight into Louis' eyes and it's unnerving. "None of us knew that he was writing a single for Union fucking J last week."

Louis blinks. "He didn't tell you? Why wouldn't he tell you?"

Zayn shrugs, his shoulders coming up high, challenging. "You tell us."

"I don't—“ Louis gulps, looking around at the three pairs of eyes all trained on him. "But you knew where he was, when he was with me, didn't you?" He thinks back. He and Harry saw Niall that first day, and Liam was there the next morning.

"Yeah," Liam agrees, "but we didn't know anything else. We thought you guys were, you know," he mumbles, with a blush.

"Well—“

"Why didn't he tell us?" Zayn says, folding his arms over his chest and raising his chin. There's a sharp gleam in his eyes. "Seems like a big deal, writing a song for Union J. Don't you think he would tell his best friends about it?"

"Yeah," Louis says uncertainly, backing away from Zayn a little. Just a couple of centimeters.

"Unless," Zayn raises an eyebrow, "somebody told him not to tell him, or manipulated him into keeping a secret, or, I don't know—“

"I didn't do any of that!" Louis says, raising his hands in defense. "I didn't—I swear, he offered to help me write it, and I didn't say he couldn't tell people or-or manipulate him or anything, I wouldn't."

"He's telling the truth," Liam tells Zayn quietly. "Tone it down a bit, yeah?"

Zayn doesn't take his eyes off Louis, but he exhales a deep breath, and leans away. "Sorry."

Louis gets it, is the thing. He gets why the three of them would be suspicious of him—why they'd be suspicious of someone they didn't know, someone who Harry had spent the week before he'd run off with. "What would it have to do with him leaving, though? If he didn't tell you guys about the song?"

"Dunno." Zayn slumps back on the couch, defeated. "Thought it might be something. You know, something that would help us figure out why."

"He didn't say anything to you?"

"He was gone when I got home from work," Liam answers. "A lot of his stuff was missing from his room, and his phone was still there, and—he left this." Liam pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Louis.

It's a note from Harry.

_I'll be back for the rest of my stuff later. I'm sorry, Li. Send my love to Niall and Zayn._

It's signed with two Xs.

"What, is he planning to move out?" Louis frowns.

"Sure sounds like it," Liam says. "But I don't know why he would. It's not like we were planning on moving out any time soon, or anything."

Louis traces over the two Xs, then carefully folds the note exactly as it was and hands it back to Liam. "So, I'm the last person he saw before he left town. He left after,” he swallows, "after he ran out on me."

"Sit," Zayn says, not meanly, patting the cushion next to him. Louis does. "Tell us what happened. Please."

Louis takes a long pause before he starts. He has replayed that moment a million times in his head by now, and he has all the details memorized. "We had lunch at my flat, and everything was normal. Like, he was just the same as he had been all the time we'd been together before, right. And then we were watching the twitcam, and everything was fine. Then they announced the title of the single, and said there were special guest writers, and then they said our names. And Harry just completely shut down."

There's a long silence when Louis finishes. Liam and Zayn are having a conversation with their eyes, but they look as confused as Louis feels. Niall's still sitting on the floor, where he's been since he let Louis in. He hasn't said a word still, and he's biting his nails.

"Why would he react like that to his name?" Liam says finally.

Louis shrugs, feeling a little hysterical. "I've only known him for two weeks. I have no idea, absolutely none."

They're all silent, again, until Niall pipes up, quiet and raspy. "When I first met him," he says, “I remember he seemed really nervous when I asked what his name was. Like I would recognize it or something."

"But why?" Louis asks, desperate.

Niall just shrugs. He still hasn't looked up.

Liam furrows his brow. “Actually, I remember he did that when he met me, too. He was so bloody nervous.”

“When was that?” Louis asks.

“When he came to see the flat the first time,” Liam replies. “I put an ad out for a new flatmate and he answered it. That was what, four months ago?”

Louis blinks. “All of you have only known him for four months?”

All three of them nod.

“Do you know anyone who’s known him longer? Besides his mum.”

Liam frowns. “No, I don’t think I do.” He glances over at Zayn, who shakes his head.

“He never talks about anyone from back home,” Niall pipes up again. “Always thought it was odd. I don’t know why I never asked about it.”

Zayn slides down to sit next to Niall on the floor and drapes an arm over his shoulder.

Louis rubs his neck, feeling very out of place. "I don't have any more information for you," he says, with a defeated sigh. "He just ran out on me. He said that I wouldn't want to call, whatever that meant."

"Like he's never coming back," Liam says softly.

A lump rises in Louis' throat as he remembers the way that Harry kissed him. He nods tightly.

Over the next hour, they run over all the details of what happened, all of the things they can think of that might lead them to some kind of clue of why Harry left. After a while, Niall stands up and disappears into Liam’s bedroom. It makes Louis' heart pang, and reminds him that he doesn't actually know very much about Harry at all. He tries to imagine how it must feel for these three, having their best friend just flee town one day, but he can't.

The tight set of Zayn's jaw when he looks at Louis softens as the night progresses. Though Louis still senses coolness directed at him, it's nothing like when Louis first walked in.

After a point, Louis realizes that they're not really making any progress—and that probably Liam and Zayn know it, too. They keep talking though, keep remembering little details of the way Harry acted or things he said, because it feels so much more productive than the alternative.

"I'm really sorry," Louis says, after a long pause where they all search for something else to talk about, some stone they haven't yet turned over. There is none. "I can't help but feel like—like maybe I caused this, somehow. I'm sorry."

Liam shakes his head. "I don't think you did, honestly. I mean, it's clear you didn't mean any harm."

Zayn gives a tiny nod, and the two of them give Louis identical looks of—something. It's a combination of pity, sympathy, and acceptance, maybe. Louis doesn't know how to interpret it.

"I should go, I think. I don't mean to impose," Louis says, standing up.

Liam peers over at Louis with a shrewd look. "You're free to stay here, if you'd like. We've all been here since yesterday. If, you know, you'd prefer not to be by yourself."

Louis doesn't want to be by himself, not at all, but he can’t stay. "Thanks, but I should go," he says again, hands in his pockets.

Liam pulls out his phone. "Here, give me your number. We'll keep in contact if anything new happens, yeah?"

"Yeah," Louis says. "Yeah, that's good." They exchange numbers, and Louis tucks his phone back away. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."

Zayn offers him a small smile, finally. "It's alright. I'm sorry for how I acted, earlier."

"I understand," Louis says with a small smile of his own.

As Louis turns to leave their makeshift campsite in the tiny living room, he feels even emptier than before.

\--

Louis spends the next day alternately staring at the ceiling, pacing, and chewing his nails. He forgets to eat breakfast, then lunch. Liam doesn't text.

At eight, he lies down and tries to sleep, manages to doze here and there for an hour at a time. At five, he's startled awake by the sound of his phone buzzing.

It's a text from Herb. _You should really check the Mirror's website. Now._

Louis does, pulling it up on his phone’s browser. The very first headline reads, "Union J Songwriter Harry Styles is Andrew Dylan."

It takes Louis' sluggish brain a moment to place the name, but then he remembers. _The Andrew Dylan Story_ , the book Herb lent to him months ago, about the—oh god.

About the music student that helped his professor have an affair.

Louis falls off the bed in his haste to get to his bookcase. He can't find the book at first, stands there dithering for a full two minutes before he notices one book with its spine turned to face the inside. There it is. With a dull sense of horror, Louis realizes that Harry must have seen the book on his shelf and turned it around himself. With shaking hands, Louis takes the book off the shelf and begins frantically flipping through it,

There are pages upon pages describing the author's sexual relationship with Andrew Dylan—with Harry, with Louis' Harry. Everything from the day they met, spanning months. It leaves a bitter taste in Louis' mouth, the way he so casually describes every single private detail of conversations the two of them had.

Even worse, though, are the descriptions of Harry. Louis speed-reads through it all, chapter after chapter, and the boiling feeling in his stomach spreads into his veins.

 _Andrew was very talented at writing the kind of mindless lyrics that sounded just pretty enough to mask their unoriginality. He was a bland guitarist, relying on the same tricks again and again,_ says one page. _Other professors in the department had nothing but praise for his work. Like me, they had been fooled by his charisma, fooled into thinking his lacking creativity was anything but._

 _The first time he came to see me in my office, he was positively cherubic,_ says another page. _Full of endless, simpering flattery. Something about the quality of his voice, or the set of the smirk plastered on his lips, made him seem genuine, his seduction attempts nothing but boyishly honest flirtation._

Page 83 sends Louis over the edge. _My immediate impression of him was that he was very naïve, that he had managed to get by in life so far on his looks and his charm alone. I was wrong. His façade was a calculated, false earnestness that drew many—including myself—into his clutches. He thoroughly bamboozled me, with no concern for my previously very happy family life. Like a siren, he drew me in irresistibly, and then left me to flounder on the rocks. He was a master manipulator, a puppeteer, the Wizard of Oz behind his curtain. There was nothing behind that curtain, not even a sorry man with a bag of cheap magic tricks. Everything about him was a sham._

Louis tears the page out of the book as soon as he reads it, and then starts on the rest of them. When there's a pile of crumpled paper at his feet, Louis throws the shell of the book against the wall, and hurries back to his bed to get his phone.

It takes some begging, but eventually Liam gives Louis another phone number. Louis calls, hands still shaking in rage, and speaks with Harry’s mum as calmly as he can.

She’s fierce with him at first, and Louis can understand that—is gratified by it, even. It takes him five minutes even to convince her that it’s really him, really Louis Tomlinson, speaking to her. It’s another ten before she gives him their address. She promises only to tell Harry that Louis wants to see him, and leave Harry with the decision of letting Louis in or not.

“And if you are some kind of imposter,” she hisses to him before hanging up, “I do know what Louis Tomlinson looks like. I will not hesitate to call the police if you’re not him.”

Louis spends the long drive to Cheshire deep in memory.

Everything about this scenario is familiar, from the way the sun looks at this time of the morning as he's speeding up north to the uprooted feeling in his bones. Waking up way too early to an earth-shattering news story. It’s déjà vu.

No one had driven up to find Louis, though. There's that.

Before he knows what to do with himself, he's parking in front of the house. He hasn't planned what he's going to say. He thought to bring a notebook and pen as he was dashing out the door, though, because he knows there's a strong chance that Harry won't want to see him after all. He doesn't know what he'd write in a letter.

After he turns off the car, he gives himself a moment to calm his fury. Harry does not need Louis’ anger right now, no matter that is on his behalf and entirely justified. When his heartbeat has slowed, Louis steps out of the car.

Anne opens the door to let him in. She grasps Louis’ hand in a firm shake. “He agreed to speak to you,” she says, “but the second he wants you out, you’re leaving.”

Louis nods meekly, and Anne leads him to Harry’s room. The door is closed, so Anne raps on it lightly and leaves Louis to go in alone when Harry rumbles, “Come in.”

Harry is sitting up in middle of the mattress, the duvet wrapped around his slumped shoulders and a book beside him like he’d just set it down. There are deep bruises under his eyes and his skin is pale. Something sharp and cold twists in Louis’ stomach.

“Harry,” he says weakly.

“Hello, Louis,” Harry says, and his eyes are guarded. Louis hates it.

He’d really love to rush forward and hold Harry, kiss him on the forehead, wrap his blanket tighter, just something. He doesn’t, though, because the boundaries that Harry has put up are palpable, extending like a bubble all the way to the doorway. “I’m so sorry,” he says instead. “This wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me, this wouldn’t have been dug up, and I’m sorry.”

Harry closes his eyes and sighs quietly. “Don’t be sorry. That’s ridiculous.” He sighs, running his hand through his dirty hair and looking down. “If anything, I should be sorry. I should have known to tell you not to use my name, so that your comeback single wouldn’t have been spoiled by all this,” he waves a hand in the air, rolling his eyes, “controversy.”

Louis blinks. “You can’t possibly think that matters right now.”

“I am sorry, for the record,” Harry mumbles.

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault some complete fucking arsehole published a book blaming his inadequacies on you.” Louis tries to keep his voice calm, he does, but can’t help that it rises a bit. “That’s the opposite of your fault. God, Harry. I can’t believe anyone would do that to you, of all people in the world—”

“Louis,” Harry says, cutting him off. “Did you come here so that I would tell you that he lied, that he made up all that stuff and that I didn’t do any of it?” He finally turns to look up at Louis, his eyes bitter. “Because a lot of people I knew hoped I would say that the last time this happened, but I couldn’t. All of it is true. I did everything he said I did.”

“I don’t care if you did everything he said and more than that on top of it,” Louis spits back. “He was wrong about you.”

Harry gives him an incredulous stare. “You spent four days with me, Louis. He knew me for a year.”

“Yeah, alright.” Louis scoffs. “You know what, though? I haven’t had four days that good in over a decade. Fuck, Harry. Do you have any idea how wonderful you are, how completely fucking _amazing_ you are? You’re the most genuinely good person I’ve ever met, and it’s breaking my fucking heart that you believe any of the things that pile of shit said about you.”

Louis hadn’t meant to say any of that, but as it comes out it echoes that special way that only true words do. The silence that follows is terrifying. Louis is still standing in the doorway.

Harry swallows, and Louis exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Can you come here, please?” Harry asks, so quiet after how loud Louis’ voice was. “Please.”

Louis crosses the room in three quick strides and wraps himself around Harry. Harry clings to him tightly with the duvet between them.

“Did you mean that?” Harry asks into Louis’ neck, voice small.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers through a tight knot in his throat. “All of it.”

Harry starts to cry then, quietly, with little hiccupping sobs. He chants “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” against Louis’ shirt, and it makes Louis feel like his chest is cracking open. He holds Harry closer to him and rocks him against his chest, shushing him softly.

Once Harry starts to quiet down a little bit, minutes later, Louis presses a kiss into Harry’s hair. He can feel the spots on his shirt where Harry’s nose has run. “I didn’t mean to swear that much,” he mumbles.

Harry lets out a watery chuckle. “You said ‘fuck’ probably ten times in a sentence,” he rasps. “My mum is probably wondering what kind of boy you are, honestly.”

Louis kisses Harry’s hair again, then his forehead. “One that’s worthy, I hope.”

“Maybe,” Harry murmurs.

“I really did mean it,” Louis says again, because it feels important. “Scared me a bit to say it, but. I meant it.”

Harry looks down and plays with a thread in the duvet. “For what it’s worth, er, it’s mutual.”

Louis smiles softly. “Lucky me, then.”

“Stop,” Harry snorts, flushing with pleasure.

Louis pulls Harry tighter to him, pressing a tender kiss to his pink cheek. For a moment, he just rubs Harry’s back. Harry’s breath puffs out onto his neck, warm and just the slightest bit ticklish.

“Can I ask you something?” Louis asks, hesitant. “I mean, don’t answer if you don’t want to, but.”

Harry looks up and nods.

“Why did you leave? I mean, I understand coming up to your mum’s, believe me, but you didn’t say anything to anyone. None of your mates knew anything.”

“I was scared,” Harry says simply. He lets out a long breath. "When the book came out, I was living up here. And it was awful, right, that everyone was reading all of that stuff and talking about my, my mental well-being, or whatever, but at least no one knew it was me. But then, four months ago, someone from school figured it and spread it around. A few of the local papers wrote about it, and then it was online." He chuckles bitterly, and it makes Louis' chest squeeze tight. "I guess that's probably how _The Mirror_ found out. Anyways, I lost all of my friends. Some of our distant family still doesn't talk to me or Mum or Gemma."

"So you moved down to London?" Louis guesses, pushing Harry's fringe away from his eyes.

Harry nods. "I figured it wouldn't follow me. I wanted to be just Harry Styles, not Harry Styles slash Andrew Dylan."

"A fresh start.”

"Exactly. And I didn't tell Liam or Niall or Zayn because—well, I thought I could trust them, but I thought I could trust a lot of the people up here." Harry shrugs. "I just hoped none of you would google me."

Louis frowns. "I'm so sorry, Harry. God. I can't believe anyone would ever be so shitty that they'd abandon you over that."

Harry sighs. "And now it's going to happen all over again."

Louis blinks at him. "What are you talking about?"

"They'll start avoiding me," Harry says matter-of-factly. "Zayn, Liam, and Niall. They'll pretend not to care at first, but they'll stop talking to me at some point."

"Harry," Louis says incredulously. "Your friends aren't going to start avoiding you."

"You don't know that."

"Do you know how hard it was for me to get Liam to give me your mum's number this morning? He made me promise fifteen different ways that I wouldn't come up here just to hassle you, or get you to release some kind of PR statement." Louis snorts. "And then he told me he'd cut my balls off and make them into coin purses if I did."

“You talked to Liam?”

“Yeah. I went to your flat yesterday. They were all camped out over there, all three of them.” Louis levels him with a severe look. “All worried sick, wondering what happened to you.”

“Well, at least they know, now.” Harry lets out a heavy sigh, and then raises his eyebrows. “Wait. _Liam_ told you he’d cut your balls off? Are you sure you had the right Liam?”

“They’re not going to abandon you, Harry.” Louis rolls his eyes. "I mean, I've just met them, but I can tell. Zayn interrogated me, even."

"What for?"

"He thought that I'd made you swear not to tell anyone about the song we were writing, since none of them knew about it. Which I didn't," Louis reminds him.

Harry hangs his head. "I know. I, erm. I didn't really have the time to tell them, you know, with how much time were spending together."

"You could have just told them in a text, you know."

"I kind of wanted to keep it to myself," Harry says quietly. "It didn't really feel real, and, I dunno, I just wanted it to be mine for a bit. Ours."

"Yeah.” Louis agrees quietly. “But the point stands. Your friends were quite wary of me when I told them."

"Doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"Harry, you could murder someone and they'd forgive you for it." Louis rolls his eyes again. "You don't know the effect you have on people, do you?"

Harry shrugs. "I mean, this kind of changes things, doesn't it?"

"No, Harold. Not for them, and not for me, either. I can prove it, if you want," Louis tells him, pulling out his phone. "Here, call them."

Harry immediately shrinks away. "No."

"Alright," Louis says softly, reaching for Harry's hand. "I'll call them, yeah? I'll call Liam and put him on speaker and pretend you're not here."

After a moment, Harry nods.

Zayn picks up Liam's phone after one ring. "Are you with Harry right now?" he demands immediately.

"Zayn, darling Zayn, I have a question for you."

"Louis, what the hell—”

"One question, that's all."

Zayn sighs loudly. "Alright."

"How do you feel about Harry right now?"

Harry is wringing his hands.

"What do you mean, how do I feel?” Zayn barks. “He suddenly ran off on us without saying why, and now he's all over the papers for being in some book. I'm worried as fuck, and I really want to talk to him, _please_."

"Do you know what the book is about?" Louis asks, still watching Harry.

"Yeah, I read it. It's bullshit. Harry's not like that, _you_ should know that."

Louis raises his eyebrow at Harry. Harry shakes his head. "What if it's true?" he mouths.

"How would you feel if Harry did sleep with his professor after all?"

"I wouldn't fucking care," Zayn replies acidly. "I just want my best mate back here and safe. And I would really, really like to speak with him, if you could be so kind."

"Zayn?" Harry speaks up. "Zayn, I'm here."

"Harry?"

Louis hands him the phone. Harry takes it off speaker and puts it to his ear.

Louis nods at the door, silently asking Harry if he should step out for the rest of the phone call, but Harry grabs his hand and interlaces their fingers. That's settled, then.

Zayn and Harry talk for a while, and Louis tries not to listen in. He runs his fingers through Harry's hair gently as Harry murmurs to Zayn down the line, talking less than Zayn does. Louis can tell when Zayn hands the phone over to Liam, and then when Liam hands it to Niall. Niall's part of the call takes the longest, and by the time Harry is saying his goodbyes, he's crying again.

"See?" Louis asks gently.

"I'm so lucky," Harry whispers.

Louis shakes his head. "No, you're not lucky. You have friends that deserve you. Those other people, the ones here, they're shit."

"You shouldn't swear so much."

"They _are_ shit. They're steaming, fly-infested, putrid piles of poo. They’re dinosaur poo, as big as this house."

Harry giggles wetly. It's beautiful.

\--

Harry stays up at his mum's house for a week, and Louis stays with him. It's slightly inconvenient, because all the promo for the single is starting down in London, and Herb and the label execs have so many questions about Harry. There’s no way Louis is going to leave, though.

With Harry's permission, Louis debriefs Herb, then the Union J boys. The label execs aren't so happy, of course, but there isn't much they can do now. They release a press statement that says that neither the band nor the label knew about Harry's history before he co-wrote the single.

Jaymi unleashes a diatribe on Twitter when he sees what people are saying about Harry. It warms Louis' heart.

By the end of the week, Anne gently tells Harry that she's kicking him out, for his own good. His face immediately fills with terror when she says it, but Louis squeezes his hand tight. "It's not going to stop," Louis whispers in his ear apologetically. "And hiding longer won't make it easier to go back."

Harry squeezes his hand back, and gives Louis a look that he swears sinks all the way into his soul. And that's that.

They get back into the city in the evening. All the boys are waiting at Liam and Harry's flat. Niall jumps up from the couch the second he hears the key in the door, the other two close behind him, and they crush Harry into the biggest, best hug Louis' ever witnessed. After an awkward second where Louis just stands and watches, Zayn grabs his arm and drags him in, too. He meets Louis' eyes over Harry's shoulder and gives him a small nod and a smile.

"Should I go?" he whispers to Harry quietly once they all break apart.

Harry's eyes widen. "Do you want to?"

Louis shakes his head. "I just thought, you know, that you might want some space. Some time with your friends, and that."

"Please stay." Harry's eyes are still wide, and a little scared, maybe.

"Alright," Louis agrees, rubbing a calming circle into Harry's back.

It's hard for Harry to leave the flat, at first. He's yet to be recognized, but his face has been in the tabloids and all over Twitter, so it could happen. None of them says anything about it, but they all stay at Harry and Liam's flat for a few days. With all of them there, Harry doesn't have much need—or desire—to go outside.

Louis leaves Harry’s flat in the morning to meet up with Herb and visit his own flat to make sure it's still there, and then he comes back. It feels a bit like a party, at best. At worst, it gets cramped and there's always somebody waiting for the shower, but it's fine. It’s temporary. Louis bonds with the other three, even, and watches Harry settle back into himself.

On Harry's insistence, Zayn and Niall go back to sleeping at their own flat after the third day. Louis stays. He curls up around Harry late that night and presses kisses into his hair. Just as Louis is sure that Harry's fallen asleep, he speaks up.

"Thank you so much for everything. Really." He swallows tightly. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to thank you enough."

Louis presses a kiss to his throat. "It'll be okay, you know. People will forget."

"I know," Harry replies quietly. He sighs, and when he speaks again, his voice is slower. "I just feel like... like when I go out to get coffee, or to busk, or just to take rubbish out the bins, everyone who sees me—they'll know. They'll know everything about me, without me saying a word."

“You know,” Louis murmurs, nuzzling into Harry’s neck, “someone once explained something to me, about how songs work. There’s a difference between music and lyrics, yeah? And if you only know the music, you won’t ever understand the song.”

“So?”

“So,” Louis continues, “perhaps all those people have heard the angry montage music. But they certainly haven’t heard the lyrics.”

Harry goes still in Louis’ arms, and then turns to face him. “Thank you,” he whispers, and kisses him hard. Louis kisses back just as fiercely, framing Harry’s jaw with his hands. They pull away some later, and Harry drags Louis onto him so that he’s lying with his head on Harry’s chest.

As Louis drifts off to the steady thumping of Harry’s heart, he hazily muses that maybe, it should be him that’s thanking Harry.

\--

It does get easier. Harry gets stir-crazy staying the in flat all day, so he starts going out again. The first time, he goes down to the corner shop to get bread and detergent, and it takes ten minutes. He comes back pale-faced and breathing hard, but grinning. Louis kisses him all over his face and murmurs “I’m so proud of you,” ignoring Zayn’s retching. Next, Harry goes for a walk in the park with Louis, and then out to lunch with all four of them.

The world doesn’t come thundering down. Harry gets a few sneers and glares, and once, a snide comment from the cashier at Tesco. It hurts, but he gets past it. He’ll soon be earning royalties from the single, and he has his boys and his Louis.  

Louis sits beside him on that park bench the first time Harry busks again. He’s as brilliant as the last time, just as mesmerizing, and the crowds that gather round him aren’t any smaller. They’re bigger, even.

While Harry gets more confident every day, a cloud of butterflies settles itself firmly into Louis’ stomach and grows restless. He swears he can feel their wings beating when he takes a deep enough breath, or when Harry looks at him with that soft smile of his.

Louis doesn’t know the suave way to do this—doesn’t know any way to do it, really—so he does what comes naturally. It turns out that what comes naturally is to fumble.

It’s a night a little more than a month after the news broke and a week before their single debuts. Harry is blending up basil and garlic to make pesto for their lasagna dinner in Louis’ kitchen. There’s a ridiculous scarf holding his curls back from his face, and the ink of his butterfly tattoo is stark and beautiful on his bare stomach. He’s whistling.

Louis’ heart feels way too big for his chest, like it’s going to fill up every nook and cranny of his body until it spills out of his ears. His brain to mouth filter deserts him. “Harry,” he blurts, “be my boyfriend?”

Harry stops whistling but keeps his eyes down on the pesto. Louis immediately panics.

“Forget I said it,” he rushes out, “Never mind. Sorry, I don’t—yeah. Sorry.”

Harry still doesn’t say anything and doesn’t look up. After a tense moment, Louis notices that Harry’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

“Oh my god, I’ve just made a complete tit of myself, haven’t I?”

Harry snorts. “Yup.” His eyes are sparkling when he turns to face Louis, finally, and his grin is big and bright. “Honestly, Louis. I’m shirtless in your flat, cooking us dinner. For the fifth night in a row. What did you think we were doing?”

Louis pouts. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Can’t help it,” Harry replies, stepping closer to Louis and sliding his arms around Louis’ waist. “Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that a big, glamorous pop star like Louis Tomlinson would get all flustered over little old me.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue, his usual retort that he’s a _disgraced former pop star,_ but he’s learned better. He grins instead. “You mean, never in your teenage wet dreams about me?”

“Those, yeah,” Harry giggles, then leans down and gives Louis a slow, sweet kiss.

Louis pulls away after a moment because, well, he has to check. “Is that a yes?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, you twat, I’m your boyfriend. My mum approves of you and everything. Can I get back to the pesto, now?”

Louis pretends to think it over. “No,” he decides, and yanks Harry down into another kiss. Harry huffs a happy, exasperated breath into his mouth.

\--

The very first time Louis heard his own song debut on Radio1, he was sat in a hotel room with Aiden, Connor, and Tyler. It was spectacular. They jumped and screamed and probably woke up the entire floor with their celebrating, and Louis was absolutely on top of the world.

Later on, he resigned himself to the fact that he’d probably never feel that again.

This time, he’s sitting at his own kitchen table, wrapped up in his boyfriend’s arms. There’s no frenzy as the first few bars play. There’s no movement besides his own smile stretching across his face and Harry’s arms tightening around him. It’s a cold, quiet morning, and he has never been happier.


End file.
